Funny,

How in the Valley of the Sun,

where my son

lives, works, plays;

where my mother and sisters

spend their days

with the cacti,

and dust, growing dry;

While on the other hand I,

alive,

live farther Northwest by choice,

in Puget Sound, where it’s moist;

but yet barely survive,

for I, too, am dry.

I cry

because of the dusty,

empty, barren part

of my heart.

It beats and lives here,

searching, waiting, wanting.

While in that hot Valley,

a new, unknown she

lives who writes

of dreamy delights

of what I only imagine

could/would/should be.

Should I turn my mind

and gaze

southward,

through the empty haze,

and wonder?

If I traveled there,

and met what I dared

hope for,

would my parched heart moisten,

grow, then burst asunder

with fulfilled glee

from me + she

in that parched, sunny,

yet fertile Valley?

Funny.