A long walk, enough
to stir the air in the schoolyard
and bring the cats home for milk.
The girl, new whirled on the merry-go-round,
chatters ahead on the sidewalk,
waves her hands up at the cottonwoods.
Up at the corner,
the wind in the trees
sounds like a river.
seas of butterfly peas flutter;
purple, blue swollen petals unfold,
welcome light and warmth in the still of garden
apple blossoms fall soundless across broad shoulders,
cling to the sweater of the gardner as she clips
jonquil, gladiola, from hoards of like blooms
a blanket cast in the tulip bed and lounged upon;
a gardner, fertile and strong, sunglowed, rounded, lithe,
smelling of earth and flower and mown grass
spirea caressing two bodies, sun-warm skin,
breath mulch soft and green cool;
the tulips riot in a breeze, erupt in frenzies of joy
the last time the sky broke like this–
bearded faces wisped in gray,
runways into space where haze becomes earth–
was when we walked dry creeks
into the desert outside of Chinle
cottonwoods rattled in baked haze–
locusts jumped over splintered looms
and into the corners of hogans
evenings, we stuck matches into sagebrush
and dreamed of Navajo blood
pounded into canyon sandstone
by Kit Carson’s rifliers, who fired
like boys at a turkey shoot
we woke to ravens ready to pluck out our eyes
when we weren’t looking–
we climbed onto ponies hitched to medicine men
and we raised hands split rough and empty,
hands tired of fighting anyone and anything
there and then we rode away,
feathers in our hair turned to sunshine
we could smooth puddles tonight
when the temperature reaches zero
with the Zamboni in the Lona Auto parking lot–
the one in front of the mural of Don Diego
kneeling at the feet of the Virgin.
but there’s not much to say
about a Zamboni strayed
and foundered before the Virgin of Guadalupe
in a puddle guarded by broken cars
still, slick ice for the Virgin, Don Diego,
and us to skate tight circles on with shivering dogs
until the sun melts our little paradise
and sends us skittering back home
to sleep off our dream
now, though, in night muffle,
snow rimes the puddle,
ice crystals feather the windshields
the cottonwood and sycamore
give up mats of leaves
on mere suggestion of winter
but the bear pin oak shivers,
bow-backed, full-pelted,
paws up and ready to fight
freeze snow hellish wind
it will take all winter
to skin that tree