A man is pitched through the door
by blasts from steppes.
Scrub and cactus land,
Earth’s belly has been ripped open,
giving birth to grit and death.
Gloom is ushered in by a maelstrom of dust.
Tumbleweed scratches at windows,
spidery skeletons seeking shelter
from relentless wind.

Our orchard, clothed in pale shrouds,
gashed trees lean on sheds and plough.
Earth’s face is prematurely wrinkled, dry.
Trampled on for centuries by cloven hooves of alien herds.
She’s powder, an earthen pyre, raped by human forces
devouring rich layers of fertility. Not a drop of rain in eons;
on this devastation lie the dying... lies all hope.

My husband's face is seared with dust,
eyelids heavy with gray desperation.
Sweat has succumbed to an earthy mask,
dry runnels on his cheeks, scarred hole of his mouth.
No man ever gained over December’s wind.
He drops his clothes in a heap,
opens his arms to my cool body,
presses me tight to his patient heart.
Uncanny silence,
a sickle moon knives Patagonian skies,
overlooking centennial shadows
cast in sword and catastrophe.