You have seen chaos,
fire,
and have persevered

with lessons etched in time,
your cascading wisdom
nourishes the land

strength in community
and bliss in
stillness

ancient things,
of marvelous
manner
I am forever grateful
for your calling

I’d be derelict in my duty
That I owe to humankind
If I didn’t help the homeless
By every method I can find

That man may be a derelict
A hobo and a ***
As he slumps there on the gutter
Reeking of cheap ***

His address was a derelict
Condemned to be torn down
They’ve turned him out onto the street
And told him to leave town

But he’s still a human being
And his needs aren’t being met
The city has abandoned him
As one more losing bet

I offer him my tool shed
As a quiet place to sleep
But he turns down my offer
Says the price is way too steep.

He’d have to come and go on time
And follow simple rules
He says he’s better on his own
Among the other fools

Who populate the ***** streets
On the poorer side of town
He shambles off to join his pals
Leaving me to stand and frown.
ljm

As plaintive tones from a distant flute
     drifted across the mesa valley    
the sun over Spruce Tree House
     began its descent toward dusk.

Above the courtyard, Anasazi masons
     plaster-sealed the final stones
on the great cylindrical tower.
     Collisions of mano and metate
echoed across the canyon as women
     crushed dried kernals into cornmeal.
Others hummed as their skilled hands
     brushed thin black patterns onto
scores of newly crafted bowls and jars.

A young girl rushed up a ladder
     to announce her brothers' return
from ripe mesa top fields,
     carrying baskets of fresh cut
corn, squash and beans on their backs.

A summer of nourishing rain
     promised that storage cists
would be stocked well with food for
     the arduous winter ahead
and seed for the vernal plantings.

Dusk fell on Spruce Tree plaza
     as rich aromas of venison
and fresh baked flatbread
     suffused the crisp October air.