NOTHING LEFT TO FOLLOW

When respect marches boldly
over desert sands,
his brown, work-worn hands,
smooth and dry
are held out in greeting.

Respect offers sparkle
in the tiny drops of dew
gathered on the petals 
of yellow creosote blooms.

Respect bleaches the bones
of a desert packrat--
his time too brief.

Not meaning to be rude,
I clasp the out-stretched hand;
I take the creosote branch;
and watch the bleaching
of my bones, as blown sands
shift erasing even my own footprints.
There is nothing left to follow.


     I hesitate to call today's offering a poem.  I believe is would be what Theodore Roethke referred to as a thinkie--the beginnings of a poem but something that needs more thinking.  So that is what I will do with this, save it for some more work.  I'm not sure respect is the word I need.  Would you like to offer a suggestion?
     For now I will say, when the poetry muse gives you weirdness, run with it.  Who knows where it might lead?
     What does respect mean to you?  Can you write a poem that shows respect?  Have fun writing and have a happy weekend.