May 10, 2022

what’s left

The crust perimetering a child’s PB & J, stranded on a daisy-printed lunch plate. Into
the trash it goes once the juice box is empty and the carrot sticks, dolloped with Ranch,
have been consumed. I’m thinking about that exoskeleton now as I contemplate
the moonscape of the high desert, where I’ve parked myself for the week to see the dry
and dusty sights. From a distance, everything looks as if the marrow had been sucked
clear out of the bone. But aren’t we always too quick to spot what’s absent from the menu,
bringing our old, needy ghosts to the table, watching as they turn their noses
at the shortfall? It all turns out to be a mirage when you put your boots on the ground,
where a busy village of ants has set up residence, surrounded by tiny and uncountable
wildflowers, and the wind keeps talking with great animation to anyone who will listen.