Fool's Gold

Every winter morning,
a flirtatious wink of light,
the mirage on the dry lakebed
shimmering across the desert.


I awaken to this view, thirsty.
Unlike the tourists, I do not
come here for a December tan,
the faux palm tree scenery,

days in the heat and sun.

I hope for a cool drink,
the relief of dip and paddle,
but seeking relief here
will only leave me aching

from the small arch of my back.

Instead, I close the shades.
I want to put my canoe on the water
before it disappears, but by noon,
the sun will be too cruel, too bright.

It is better to stay inside

while sun blisters the earth.
and the backbone of my boat
stays parked upside down
in my barren backyard,

elegant sand dunes billowing,
shifting in the parched breeze,
rearranging themselves into
fine-edged, smooth faced curves

tucked in against the rising wind

c. Ruth Nolan 2008