I say feed me.
She serves red prickly pear on a spiked cactus.
I say tease me.
She sprinkles raindrops in my face on a sunny day.
I say frighten me.
She shouts thunder, flashes lightning.
I say hold me.
She whispers, "lie in my arms."
I say heal me.
She gives me chamomile, oregano, peppermint.
I say caress me.
She strokes my skin with her warm breath.
I say make me beautiful.
She offers turquoise for my fingers, a pink blossom for my hair.
I say sing to me.
She chants her windy songs.
I say teach me.
She blooms in the sun's glare, the snows silence, the driest sand.
The desert is my mother.
The desert is my strong mother.