On a midnight plain, these desert sands

Slip through her weeping, weathered hands.



And as every minute grain will pass

Her truths come apart like bits of glass

Everything she thinks she knows

Contorts and distorts

And slips away

When the north wind blows.



She thinks those northbound grains

Are hers to follow

And she chases them deep

Into a southbound hollow

And takes a selective handful

Only to remember

That winds bring change.



And she drops to her knees

But her northern eye sees

The winking-up caps

Of such a lovely

Mountain range.