It is like the budding rose, evervescent through the haze of dawn; soft, gradient petals that oscillate to a mattress of silt
It is the resoluting hammock, swaying to the sighing melody of the summer breeze, and the foliage sings
It is the mariachi men, proudly playing, enveloping all in the gracious tenors of the refracting brass; their twisting, twirling tassells in deep reds, greens, browns are synonymous
It is the ripe mangoes that drip lazily down blazing, sticky, skin and carve pathways through dirt-streaked forearms
It is the bittersweet blackberry kisses to the calm morning skies- zesty, drenching- as rosy cheeks are sucked inward
It is the honor, and curious pride that is recieved, courteously, with newfound scars; a cursor to artificial geography left behind: of times past, of times forgotten
It is the bright blue eyes of a sister, tracing plum veins through fair, innocent, apple skin
It is a melting candle, flanked by crystal and decorated by dried lemon, cinnamon incense, and pine; it flickers gently -curving, swaying- the white cap of Mary into darkness
It is the flowering prickly pear, a sweet sanctuary, a burst of radiance on the shadowy landscape, where air is bountiful, and a symphony of cicadas tucks the desert creatures into bed
It is the soft crinkle of the skin of a Mejool date; vallies and mountains that ensure the safety of the chewy caramel -gilded- enticing with small cakes and chocolates on a tea tray