Desolation is not the grating and abrasive sand of an expansive desert; nor is it the merciless sun as it bleaches bones.

Desolation is not the acrid and stagnant water of a dank swamp; nor is it the trees’ weak perspiration as it drips and echoes.

Desolation is not the vast and barren sea, full of salt and brine; nor is it the minuscule waves as they lap and tease of far-away winds.

Nay, desolation is this house of a heart, with all ready to make a home.

It is the late summer sun filtering through the shade, the spectacle of a sunset. It’s the glory of the Milky Way, the miracle of the universe.

It is a hearth warmed and a kettle heated.

Indeed, desolation is this house of a heart: furnished and ready, with no occupant to share but for one’s own shadow as it pivots with the arc of time.