Contrails and Cacti

I burrow my soul
deep into the desert
until all that exists
in any one way
are contrails and cacti.

Smoky white lines
cross the skies above
forced into a syncopated rhyme
by a jet stream proving planes
really do fly like birds.
Spent contrails.
Waning evidence of jets
hastening to other places.
New York
New Jersey
New Delhi
Anywhere but here.

Underneath the contrailed sky
the majestic saguaro rules
a kingdom of sand and scorpions.
Centuries old titans bear
witness that nature
creates desert life without water.

Forests of cacti behemoths
line highways and byways
straight as soldiers
in a prickly platoon
awaiting their badland orders.

As the sun grows weary
it departs in a caucophany
of hot red orange pink.
A prelude to the upcoming show,
the house lights dim.
For nighttime introduces
a new desert order.
The evening sky
transitions into a blanket of
a million billion constellations.

My new family of
Ursa Major or
perhaps Cassiopeia
welcomes me as I rise and glide
past the Milky Way.
The end of the beginning.
The beginning of the end.

I caress falling stars on my face
as I rocket up
morphing into a supernova
burning brilliantly before I explode.
My purpose has ended.
Unmarked by headstone or sentiments
only the solace of desert space,
I lie in a solitary graveyard
guarded silently
by contrails and cacti.