DRY SANCTUARY
Even the desert has learned to protect itself,
to keep its inch of rain in stored defense;
against the mountain's strength and pressured air,
it does not stand, but daily creeps, aware.
Upon its needled hands and thorny feet,
it crouches, head bent, with lizard eyes
alert to scorching light and sand, then seeks
the deepened shadows against the coming of night.
Here kangaroo rat and road runner thrive;
the rattler coils his tail in sleepful ease,
while bayonet and dagger guard the hive
left by Indian and Spaniard in retreat.
Shrewdly, the yucca's panicle of white
is thrust above the ground, fully equipped
to meet the world on friendly terms that hide
poisoned stings, barbed walls, fists.
One could do worse than put out cactus leaves:
when harsh winds blow the wrong way and sleep
consumes itself, from inner wells they cool
their fruit and, even after a century, bloom.
RETURN TRIP
The recognition comes as it always does—
slowly. One feels a sense of surprise
to find not all has changed: the blue of miles
above the snow-rimmed clouds of old volcanoes,
the tireless browns still ploughed to greening fields,
the red tiled roofs that accent time between.