Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
                                                       ­   It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
                                                          sotol­ and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
                                                      ­    Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
                                                         ­  remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
                                                         ­  made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
                                                         ­  the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
                                                           the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
                                                        ­   our miniature juniper.

We are all rivers, you see.

Your own reflection is held by the fish you catch, at breeze point of day. At golden oaks Sunday sun.

At summer’s hold, a the chapel’s bell, heard, prayed, taught that…

THE SAND, fate, a stranded old dog, like myself. At early morning lunch, I hunt at rivers. And so my face washed by the glass like greens of water, watermelon.
We are rivers, this is mine, this is reflected by my memories and my torments.

atoned sinners, contrite heart

A book full of blood, washed up, up to her simmering feet, her lovely, tanned feet. The women I’ll forever hold my service too, and my heart hung at the museum for her, to remember devotion.

unspoils ungrateful, heals the lost.

Like a gun in the down LOW of whiskey barrel
O a gambler sombrero, who drinks sotol at the Pacifico of México. And walks by wine bodegas, not found, not lost, but searching. She somehow found me. By my river, her river, both our. You see, we are all rivers.

TIME is much more valuable, when you sort out your troubles with stories to tell…