Her tents have grown into elaborate chambered caverns
all bouyant pillows, clips, crochet, and fleece.
Protection from conjured sandstorms swirling,
my Bedouin girl.

While in my room I try to fix words like photographs,
my desert princess is taming the sun
letting fierce imaginings
drink from some secret sparkling oasis
coveted under her tent.

Her vista, vast and impenetreble
can still dissolve like a wavering mirage
by the scent of the familiar
drifting from the kitchen stove.

As I sit and pray for rain to wash the words clear,
my sodden brain's aching for the desert's ochre sunset
or brightest star of wise men and children.