Tuesday Morning Burning Man

She holds her hands high in prayer and sings
Some secret song in a language I don't
Recognize. Her modest meal made of things
Blessed by those motions that I simply won't
Ever fully understand. The secret
Ritual of a bedouin beauty
Who has, ever so briefly, come to sit
In a desert shelter across from me.
I am on a temporary leave from
A life of place and possession, a home
That gives me enough comfort to be numb
To the wide world over which she does roam.
     But in that mighty moment she shows me
     Something special--another way to be.