in the desert, color blooms in dense clumps among scrubby sands
Up high and dry on a desert plateau,
where robust patches of grass dot bare soil
and rare oases form a green tableau
while desolate sands will not storm or roil.
The rippling temple flags, their color shows,
contrasting colors concrete as gargoyles.
The scrubland’s beauty is without dispute.
Here flags and flowers colors won’t dilute.
The jungle paints the ruins green —
brown blocks are made verdant.
So, you can’t see its ordered shape
’til you part the curtain
of palms and vines and mammoth leaves
that hide those old remains —
once hacked back by muscled men who,
daily, took great pains
to clear the rampant jungle growth
out beyond moat and berm.
‘Til the invading army won,
and Fort was deemed infirm.
There’s an orange that warms my soul
when sprightly fires are dead.
It blazes back to old school days,
or the day that I was wed.
It piles the smiles on frozen faces
when they think about long gone places.