​The night desert
is not dark.
The sand floor’s
luminescence a
mirror of the moon
gazing lovingly
at Gaia,
Royal purple ceiling
dazzling with
incandescent jewels.
The night desert
is not silent.
Dunes whisper and sigh.
The voice of the Creator
sings as prey and predator
vie.
Bullroarer moans
through my solar plexus,
beckoning the day to
resume.
I find myself
enraptured,
utterly consumed.
The night desert
is not bland.
The scent of
cactus blossoms
perfume the air.
Their taste lingers
on my lips, a taste
like Hummingbird-picked
nectar, sensual
savoir faire.
The night desert
touches me,
grains of sand
abrade my skin.
Exfoliation
courtesy of grit
and winds.
It touches me
with hands unseen,
caressing my spirit.
Touches me all at once,
awakening me to myself,
and I no longer fear it
The night desert
is haunted by the echo
of ceremonial dances
choreographed to drums
and sorrowful flute.
Speaking to my
soul’s longing
for oneness,
a need I can no longer
refute.
I can’t help but
close my eyes.
The night desert
is experienced
by senses without names.
I surrender to the
presence of the divine
in the desert,
in myself,
for we are the same.

M. Zane McClellan

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