A burst of spring

 A burst of spring
    recalls the endless time lost
    between moments of years that leave no imprint
    on the mind's eye
    drifting beyond the veil of consciousness
    without so much as a whisper
    to my elder self

    who sits drying out in his chair
    probably clutching at the arm rests
    with arthritic fingers
    longing for the days
    when he could grip instead of clutch
    longing for the phantasmic colors
    remembering they existed
    but unable to recall
    a hue or shade to his mind
    which looks like
    the deserts dreamt
    in younger days
    like portents of the empty hours to come
    as the sand buries all things
    so too would time erase even the sand from his dreams

    Visually, in terms of color composition, I prefer the jungle.
    Thematically, spiritually, I prefer the desert.
    It calls to me, like the hearth of home in the depths of winter.
    If only it would rain, it would be perfect.
    Rain on the dessicated earth.
    The soil so packed that every droplet can be heard
    on impact

    I could drink every last ounce
    the sky could produce
    and still be desolate
    impenetrable