Wandering a Desert Land

The Dryad wandered far from home,
Beyond her emerald wood,
To places she had never been
And never dreamed she would.

She walked beneath the blood red rocks,
Their withered, stunted trees,
And through a land cut to the bone
By ruthless, ancient seas.
She rested where the ancient ones
Had built with strength and stone
The palaces that linger still
Though they are now long gone She wept for forests lost to flames,
The blackened, ghostly chill
Of spirits older than her own
Who call their children still. She strayed beside the river bed
That carved an ancient land
And lingered near the rippled rock
That bears the river’s brand.
The soaring canyon swept the sky
And sang a song of years,
Of longing and remembrance,
Of life and death and tears.
The Dryad wandered long afar
Amid these ancient dreams,
But deep within her secret heart
She missed her woodland streams.

The broken trees, the withered limbs
That spring from barren rock
Are testament to pine and oak
Sprung from a stubborn stock, But rivers should run clear and bright
Beneath the Douglas Fir
And trees should dance in cloud draped skies
Where mountain breezes stir.

The Dryad found great beauty in
The distant desert lands,
But joyfully she has returned
To her own sylvan strands.