Snow on Saguaro

Snow on saguaro. White prickly pear. Ironwoods pose as noble fir. Red room. Sultry voice in black boots. Drinking hot water and lemon at the bar, holding out 'til the smoke threatens the resolve of my recovering cold. Wild horses. Dreams. Has she caught anything yet? That voice. A crater of time. Does that star-dusted scape ever feel desolate? To her? While she sings? Or is it forever full of what happened there, like the pounding heart of another galaxy: immediate, distant, comforting in its insistence. That voice. A crater. Enveloping and austere. Ready to cave with a finger down the spine. Snow melts on saguaros. Ribs. Flesh. Skin glistening in moonlight.