The soft patter of cool drops,
Christen forehead, neck and hands.
The earthy incense of the desert’s thirsty breath
As He opens his sandy mouth to drink.
Processions of Palo Verde and Mesquite still clad in their golden Easter vestments
Shout Alleluia! from the valley’s hillsides
And throw their spent petals into the Pentecostal winds.
Even the cacti are clad in their Sunday best.
Like my own spiny succulent heart—
Prickly and defensive most of the time
With seasons of extravagant
Openness and beauty.
April 29, 2019