Linda Morrow

I celebrate the sand,

the undulating dunes and drifts

that I trek across at dawn.

Sharing my knapsack with camera and tripod

are lengths of fabric, remnants of cloth and ribbon.

Like a child building castles, gauzy and translucent,

I dare to mingle creosote with silk,

let chiffon drop carelessly over cracked clay,

weave grosgrain through cassia,

drape pickle weed and mesquite with organza.

​

Not detritus, but adornment:

Decoration pointing to glory.

A murmur urges, "Be of the desert,

and declare it."

​

Linda Morrow