Desert Mornings
Days in the land of mystical spirits, spiritual solitude, and self discovery
It was there just before sunrise, hanging like a lantern in the desert sky, like a beacon in the midst of what many call the Blue Hour, when the sun is at a particular depth below the horizon that the heavens take on a blue shade, an otherworldly hue.
I stood on the patio facing west and wrote down this poem.
A friend recently asked what I consider when I write a poem, how do you manage the words and the feelings that turn into verse? This morning is an example of how it might happen. I don’t write the poem. It is already there. I’m just the vessel. That’s what I believe.
I came to the Arizona desert to play golf. I love the game, the sport. But neither of those words truly describe what golf is about. At the professional level, sure, but it’s more mystical than the final round of a PGA tournament on a Sunday afternoon. Golf is an elixir for the mind, the spirit, and the body. Golf is about inner strength, a kind of athletic mindfulness, much like the desert landscape itself. And so, when I come to the American Southwest for any reason, I seek out the vast arid landscape for more reasons than I may ever fully understand.
Writers and artists have traveled to this landscape because they have found it to be a muse, a land that strips away distractions, leaving room for deeper introspection. The names of the artists are endless: D.H. Lawrence, Georgia O’Keeffe, T.S. Eliot, J.R.R. Tolkien, Paulo Coelho, Edward Abbey, John C. Van Dyke, Frida Kahlo, Mary Austin.
For me, this is where the divine speaks, where emptiness allows room for the sacred. Each morning in the desert, the world awakens like no other place on Earth, a slow and reverberant transformation, a setting where renewal is not forced but instead settles in.
“The desert is a natural extension of the inner silence of the body,” the words of French sociologist Jean Baudrillard. You are utterly aware of this when you are here, at night as the stars summon you to look up, when the horizon burns, when the silhouettes reach out like welcoming black hands, touching your cheek to remind you that life is more than survival. Willa Cather wrote about the allure of the coming of the night in the desert in her classic Death Comes for the Archbishop: “Elsewhere, the sky is the roof of the world; but here the earth is the floor of the sky.”
The desert landscape grounds you to the vastness of the human spirit, but the sky, yes, the desert sky is a prayer to the world.
David W. Berner is the author of several books of award-winning fiction and memoir. His latest poetry collection, Garden Tools is available now from Finishing Line Press. He is the Poet Laureate of the Village of Clarnedon Hills, IL. and his novella, American Moon will be published by Regal House Publishing in September, 2026 and is currently available for pre-order.
If you’ve like to receive a monthly newsletter with reading tips, music to listen to, and the latest on David’s writing, sign up for free here.
I loved this. When I was an airline pilot I was based for a coupld of years in a desert city. I rented a room from an elderly woman who lived a ways out of town. Nice little home, but the extra income helped her out. I remember landing, then upon arrival home just sitting out on the patio in the dark with a gin and tonic, listening to the sounds of the desert. Magical.
Beautiful post, David.