I’m writing to you from Phoenix,
Arizona,

Named for the date palm.

Phoenix Dactilyfera.

Named for another palm,
the kind with digits.

Here, I’ll show you.

Fat fruit guarded by fingers,
scored with life lines.

Feel them.

 Transport lines,
the web of water
snaking through frail capillaries.

Take my hand.

 Feel how dry a desert can be.

Hold it.

 Child of the sand,
your ancestors ate dates.
Mine did too.

Smashed seeds litter Judea.
Spat out at Masada,

Bitter pith.
Tree of life.

Can you taste it?

A desert forced to bloom.