Arizona

Flying over a Martian landscape
of desert's design,
as weathered as a canyon bottom,
or mesa top,
yet no more lacking direction
than the steady compass
of a place I once called Home.
Its grains of dust whisper past
a salty reminder
that we are all bound to drift,
longing and lost,
into its lair
to discorporate into atomic kinship
with only rivulets of grace
left to chase.