Desert Harvest

At last, it came, The cleansing rain at the fading Of this long, parched day.

We had arrived in the dark, When the pre-dawn sky proved flawless, And the familiar constellations staunchly challenged The rebellious glory of a falling star Until their light Was absorbed by the glory Of greater light.

The covenant of warmth from the nascent sun Drew diamondbacks from deep within their den Opposite this curious desert tree, This giant Nopal With its desirable fruit, the prickly pears, And their promise of succulent pleasure In the arid Sonoran terrain. Six rings on an upright tail Rattled a beguiling cadence Like a summons to pick the first, The beginning of our day-long harvest.

So it began. With naked hands Consciously tentative, we Reached between the spines and I, With the pricking of my thumb, Recalled the warnings of my Dad That such a fruit cannot be had Without the pain and payment Of sweat and Blood.

The desert has been exacting, The labor, arduous, And yet, Rewarding. Blossoms stipple fruitless nopal blades, Harbingers of a harvest yet to be, but Our basket is full. Clouds deepen the inevitable twilight: We can pick no more, and the gathering: well, It is finished and I— We—my worthy helper and I At last, together, Can contemplate The crimson rapture of the cactus rose Redeemed by the sudden grace of desert rain.