Sirocco
The Sun,
darkened by sand,
making night in the desert,
wind searing hot,
growing fierce,
raising walls of dust.
Wind whirling sand into funnels,
demons driving them like chariots,
zigging and zagging
in the maelstrom,
red eyes leering,
shrieks shrill in the roar.
Eyes blinded by sand,
crawling by feel
among the rocks,
forms eroded by eons
of blowing sand
into shapes grotesque
with menace.
Seeming to twist and wriggle,
grasping and clutching
for prey.
Struggling to stand,
battered from ledge to ledge,
choking on dirt,
filling the mouth,
in desperation,
gasping an exorcism,
The mayhem ceases.
A hollow opening appears
in the stones ahead,
arms pulling the body,
sliding and crawling,
over sand and dust.
Protected in the recess,
falling into an exhausted sleep,
that drifts into a hibernation,
dreams of melting
dissolving into a stream
that flows,
gently cascading
from level to level,
pooling in an oasis
in the third heaven.
Trees of grace
bearing fruit,
wisdom peers from the cave,
into the vastness of the desert.
– Gene Boehman
1/17/15 Feast of St. Anthony of the Desert
Dedicated to Anna Maria Massari Danei