about
the time we reach new mexico
every
gnarly haired dog
will
become the wildness
free
spirit
of
the mesquite tree
like
the one growing
out
of the rock
its
roots going deep
deep
enough
to
survive another dry year
the
sun drops on its way
to
a brown horizon pulling it down
high
desert dreams become dust
as
the ground shifts
mesquite
twists
---
e b bortz
No comments:
Post a Comment