across the river
the trickle of what was once Grande
I see them, huddled in their adobe squares
as the sizzling sun settles quiescently
leaving them in shielded shadow
then come the cook fires,
for the maize, the frijoles,
smoking the night sky
filling their bellies, filling my eyes
with visions of them, some silent
some filled with mirth, and song
all with hope or fear
as the moon paints their crusty hillsides silver
some will lie with one another--some will join in longing,
liquid union, planting sweet sighed seeds of hope
others, alone, will fall into dread dreams,
while winds weep and mix with coyote howls
a few will even hear the owls call their names
though the gift of eternal darkness may yet be
light years from their wretched huts
I may be there
to see the sun rise again
and repeat life's one act play,
anon and anon, or something may close
my own tired eyes, before the glory of their suffering
can be played again
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
across the river
the trickle of what was once Grande
I see them, huddled in their adobe squares
as the sizzling sun settles quiescently
leaving them in shielded shadow
then come the cook fires,
for the maize, the frijoles,
smoking the night sky
filling their bellies, filling my eyes
with visions of them, some silent
some filled with mirth, and song
all with hope or fear
as the moon paints their crusty hillsides silver
some will lie with one another--some will join in longing,
liquid union, planting sweet sighed seeds of hope
others, alone, will fall into dread dreams,
while winds weep and mix with coyote howls
a few will even hear the owls call their names
though the gift of eternal darkness may yet be
light years from their wretched huts
I may be there
to see the sun rise again
and repeat life's one act play,
anon and anon, or something may close
my own tired eyes, before the glory of their suffering
can be played again
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