At My Core, It's Dusty Mountain Beige

You smell that? That

burnt skin, charred wood, dry crusted earth so hot you

burn your nose when you inhale.

Add sunscreen and smoke, the musk of a colourless lake,

dried sweat and hot sand, the sweet smell of sagebrush,

the fragrance of my youth.

You feel that? That

sun hot on your shoulders, pavement burning bare feet,

calloused and nimble, navigating pine needles, cacti and fire ants.

Breathless winds blowing hot on your hair, your skin,

settles on your clothes, leaving a satisfying grim of adventure.

You see that? That

mass of peaks that rise in every direction,

these are not your lush green mountains, rather peaks of a desert crown.

Tops of trees crusted with the remains of their forest's last fire,

cracked earth and jagged rock surround you on all sides,

hints of life in the ponderosa pines and saskatoon berries.

You want this? I do,

give me dusty tanned skin, dirt-stained teeth from

smiling with head out the window to peak the faded sunsets.

Rusted pickups thunder up dusty beige dirt roads,

clouds of dust in our wake, leaving an imprint on my soul of

dirty feet, dusty bodies, heavy air and relentless heat.

Ask me where I'm from, I'll say it in their native tongue,

Okanagan, a place to stay forever.

I flirt with ocean blues and deep forest greens, inhabiting coastlines and

dense trees searching for meaning but at my core, the person I am,

it's sagebrush and sand,

it's dusty mountain beige.