Mosquitoes on the glass
Peer at the breathing mass
Rubbing their dainty hands
Expecting a feast in the sands
In the midst of these parched lands
Palm trees and a patch of grass
Everything else meant to pass
The wind tickles the spiky leaves
Just a bit, before it heaves
A swirling dusty cloud
Of its might proud
Then nothing
Mirages and buzzing
And still grains of sand
That seep somewhere
To earth’s core’s glands
An hourglass of dirt and air
And wringing hands
Covered in sands

© 2018 Erna G. – All Rights Reserved