The desert never asked you to stay.
It didn’t welcome you with lush grass, damp air, bountiful harvests, or a cool breeze.
It never asked you to stay, never invited you to take up residence.
It told you watch out. Thorny cacti, water that’s barely there.
Dust storms, monsoons and wind that dries your lungs.
Snakes and spiders to warn you. This place, it’s not for you. It’s not for anyone.
And yet. The houses. The pools. The green golf courses and wide roads.
The canals and lakes. People heard a message that said come, stay, build, live.
No one knows why. I know nothing but sorrow and strife, the yellow palo verde in the spring opening your eyes to the beauty. But the heat oppresses, slows us and takes the joy out of the summer, the months where life swells with joy. But here the desert says: Don’t linger. Go inside. Leave me be.