Sometimes I Can Hear the Wind Sing

When the chords don’t come,
I go to the desert, feel the rifts
of sand under my bare feet
and look away from the sun
as I listen to the evening wind
strum through my guitar strings,
then feel my heart resonate
with the same hot pulse.

When the chords don’t come
to bisect the arc from my heart
to soul —the short cut to yours
when you were here— I know
I must travel that path alone,
the one of longing, even if
the moon smiles and the stars
twinkle to memories of lavender.

When the chords don’t come,
I go to the desert, feel the cactus
under my skin while its flower
blooms your name. I listen…
for the right notes in its voice,
play the same tune in the cleft
of my hobo heart, feel it bleed
when I’m alone in the dark.