“Not all those who wander are lost.” J.R.R. Tolkien
Writhing heat warps the horizon
hissing dry wind grates ungrounded sand.
Illusionary waves part with each step
that takes him to his certain vague destiny.
The linen kaffiyeh frames his stoic face:
skin the hue of clay fired in the desert’s kiln
and eyes of sacred scarab’s carapace
alive with observation of the emptiness.
A brown robe hovers obediently
resting on his shoulders, tapping at his elbows
anticipating the rhythmic thrust of his knees
flaring in time for the protruding of his sandaled feet.
Daylight is his impetus.
With heritage as map,
he traces an ancient existence