Here
In New Mexico
The spring winds come
Bending the trees sideways
Blowing papers down the street.
Dust billows in clouds
Obscuring sections of
The Sandia Mountains
Until they disappear
In a haze of sand-laden air.
When will they stop,
Folks say to one another
Just as they said last year
And the year before
When will they stop?
The old Elm tree
In my front yard
Leans precariously
Away from the wind’s
Stern breath and
Scatters down
Brittle sticks
And delicate new leaves.
Every morning
I gather debris
From the grass,
Filling my hands,
Knowing that tomorrow
I must do it all again.
In New Mexico
The spring winds come
Bending the trees sideways
Blowing papers down the street.
Dust billows in clouds
Obscuring sections of
The Sandia Mountains
Until they disappear
In a haze of sand-laden air.
When will they stop,
Folks say to one another
Just as they said last year
And the year before
When will they stop?
The old Elm tree
In my front yard
Leans precariously
Away from the wind’s
Stern breath and
Scatters down
Brittle sticks
And delicate new leaves.
Every morning
I gather debris
From the grass,
Filling my hands,
Knowing that tomorrow
I must do it all again.
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