February 18, 2011 Sunday Whirl #44

Far From Home

I nestle into my seat

Hear the whistle blow

Toss and turn — restless

Anxious for the destination

The scorched plains of the desert

Follow the shadowy canyons

Sprinkled with seeps

The landscape appears smudgy

As the heat rises

Base camp for ghosts

The blinding sun light

Creates bizarre territory

Balance hard to find

And hard to know the core

Sores appear on heels and ankles

But still I pull up boot straps

Alone in the desert

Far from home