(Palm Springs, California)

Descending the steps into the big hot pool
at the mid-mod condo in the winter-chilly desert,

I remember the baptism of these healing waters
two years ago, entering fevered and shivering,

only to have all symptoms of the Big Bad Bug
quelled at the end of that topsy-turvy time.

And tonight—having driven 500 miles south over
two days, hoping to bask under perennial sun,

instead meeting I-5 to splash over the Grapevine
to the 210 east to the 57 to the I-10 to the 111—

we feared that we wouldn’t land in time to collect
the key to our unit before closing, then discovered

that the key didn’t work in the gate and neither
did the four-digit code, only to be let in by a kind

but reluctant resident who balked at revealing
the correct code (“security breach, you know”)

till I wheedled it out of him. After all that, to eat
a simple, coffee-shop dinner across the street,

then hit the grocery store for milk and blueberries,
and—correct code seared into our shaky short-term

memories—retreating to our temporary abode
where we donned our suits, threw towels around

our necks, padding down the cactus-lined walkway,
and gently unlatched the (unlocked) gate to behold

the six-petaled turquoise pool, its steaming bubbles
beckoning under a night-before-full moon

meandering upward through a tall palm or three,
reminding us that all frustrations and aches

melt away in frothy water heated just right,
making every mile, every downpour worth it.