Mirage of Myself

The fall comes to these hills
draped in the red leaves
of the whispering trees.

Even with these voices
I am lonely
and as parched
as the shimmering
mirage of myself
I have become
after summer's tiring heat.

Who would I be if not filled
with these forgotten sands
of the desert?

Courage now
let's me cross alone
with nothing to guide me
but the stars and words
I can barely remember.

Prayers for loving
rise up
and the moon
gathers them gently
to her abundant breast
and blows cool
on the cruel burns
left by the
sun.