|Wind Poppies, Tarweed|
I found a clearing on a ridge between two streams.
Gazing at the canyon far below, I glimpsed
the Native American site next to the river
near the washed out bridge. I hiked a path
down to a stream and stood still
next to water threading down the stone
even during drought. Wind poppies mingled
with Chinese houses and tarweed in the shade
of an embankment. As a boy I never noticed
flowers or birds, never discovered a path
next to a stream meandering down the hillside,
never found a pounding stone. Back then,
a strange voice claimed that I’d find something
Native American near the river. The same voice said
I’d return years later to the foundation of a house
in the river bottom. Since then, I’ve found village sites
in the watershed and unexpectedly returned
to the foundation, but in that clearing I was not hearing
the mysterious voice. I was not feeling like a boy again.
I was not finding artifacts or experiencing great insights.
|Wind Poppies, Chinese Houses, Tarweed|
Ravished by the flowers, I simply stopped worrying.
Past and future vanished in the breeze and heat,
the gurgling water sliding down slick, mossy rock.
I found a small, secluded Eden with the last
wind poppies and Chinese houses and tarweed
and lazuli buntings. Let me take you there.