By Carolyn Muchhala

Like the gecko
that is not
on the white
washed wall,
then is,
and when you turn
to look again
is gone,
so too, my desire.

Wind batters
the door bolted
against it.
In the mountains,
sun rains.
Hot. Fierce.
No clouds, no mercy.

The parched earth
turns to dust,
relinquishes thirst:

blessed nirvana

Published in Sacred Journey, v. 61, #3, Summer 2010