Carmelita and Maria
burn with sorrow dressed as anger;
fire in their black-diamond eyes,
hot enough to scald tears
before they roll down
the brown lands of their faces.
Both quiver like chamisa in the dry wind
but the pride of long-suffering roots
will not concede to any withering wind.
Carmelita and Maria
are born of the same stubborn stone
as the ageless mesas around Coyote,
though pain carves arroyos in their souls.
As even the desert Rio Chama overflows
when the thirsty earth
cannot drink the rainstorm fast enough
and brings flowers in sand,
Carmelita and Maria will not admit it,
not to one another or to themselves,
but both long for the desert inside them
to blossom after the winter,
to be the sun,
each to the flower that is the other.

Burnt out arroyo's
Of centuries gone
Melt before the sun
Goes away,  before
Summer does. The
Carmalized scent
Of la chamisa
Dank and old
Reminds me of
A smile gone
A dream remembered.

It was never easy, no
to love you fall;
so dearly and deeply
as it was to sleep
amongst the tall
pines of summer
(that strong spine of fear)
but I will confess
no more or less;
that your scent of la chamisa
in the evening of half moon
was a chill my flesh has
never confessed nor condoned.