Tumbleweed,
tumbleweed,
drying in the sun,
which hidden pasture
did you blow in from?

Bands tan and brown,
Crystals sticky white,
I envision your owner
dropping you in the night
under glow of police light.

Under watchful camera eye,
along the rocky terrain,
I see you tumbling down,
torrents of soft green rain,
fruit of the desert plain.

Tumbleweed,
tumbleweed,
snatched from the ground,
hiding in plain sight
waiting to be found.

A parting gift for the road
stretching endlessly ahead
battling sorrow and confusion,
worn down like tire treads,
a reprieve from a life that
sometimes feels like death.