a poem

On the crest of a dune,
ankle deep, locked in sand.
Waiting for the Sirocco,
the Hammartan,
to come and sand blast
me from inside out
and outside in.
At dawn, the sun is a welcome,
warm blanket.
But the comfort turns oppressive,
and I sweat out toxins.
By dusk hues of violet and magenta
streak the sky.
And the cool breeze brings relief
to my brulee skin.
Wind aloe turns to ice, and the cool
breezes I've longed for all day
are now like icicles pelting my body.