There are no flowers This spring. The desert rains have yet to bloom Leaving last season’s corpses Blowing in the brown dust And choking ashes. The relentless sun And blinding blue Scream into my eyes — The land hopes my tears Will quench its eternal thirst, But they dry before falling. I wonder if the Hohokom, Sobaipuri and Akimel O’odham Bloomed vivid in vernal rains, Before their flowers were ripped up and trampled — Paved over by white climate change.
This really resonated with me—not just the stark imagery of a desert longing for rain but also the way you tied it to the people who knew and cared for this land long before it was exploited. The way you honor the Hohokam, Sobaipuri, and Akimel O’odham in this piece is so important. It’s devastating how colonization and climate change are woven together. They both stripped the land of its vitality and erased the people who once thrived in it. Thank you for writing and sharing this ❤️
This really resonated with me—not just the stark imagery of a desert longing for rain but also the way you tied it to the people who knew and cared for this land long before it was exploited. The way you honor the Hohokam, Sobaipuri, and Akimel O’odham in this piece is so important. It’s devastating how colonization and climate change are woven together. They both stripped the land of its vitality and erased the people who once thrived in it. Thank you for writing and sharing this ❤️
Thank you so much! 😊 I am glad it resonated with you. 💜
Incredible imagery and such a haunting but important message.