Lifecycles of the strange;
the simple desert between them.

Twenty years in the making, a bloom,
the chance, one chance, one life.

Grown steadily from roots clinging
for water, for nourishment, for affection.

Growing prickles and spines and thicker
each year, wasting efforts to fight the air.

That same energy could propagate,
could bloom many flowers, but won’t.

“I was given a promise. I was given a feather.”
And the hummingbird’s tale unknown.

How well adjusted must one and one be
to make it through this desert, together?

This species relies on one bird, in one instant,
to change its life, forever.

What tale is it, if the avian rejects?
What of the bird and the plotline, then?

Did it fly to Vegas to gamble away fortunes?
Did it have children and “settle down”?

Did it tell those baby birdies of the time
when it knew commitment, and didn’t show?

The cactus, with forty years left,
no longer worried about propagation, thinks.

Did he, like all birds, seek to fly away?
or simply, did he oversleep?

Last petal fell, last tear was shed,
the desert, thoughts, surround.