Within walls of bare rock, no urgency
to improve the moment, no cell phone call
for plastic gadgets to hold us connected –
thin swirl of smoke, black and blue
coffeepot, wine jug passed— enough
and all we need to please our gods
circled ‘round the fire. From the ash
of a hundred years exposed, pine needles
and cedar cones piled for banked coals,
they have risen from this midden since
we were children— fathers and grandfathers
buried beneath our feet, free of the flat
dreams farmed with this slow snowmelt
leaking, slipping and dripping into the roar
and foam of the Rio de los Santos Reyes,
of the Kings wearing cold granite smooth
that dares and intimidates the soul— cures
the sinful and the satisfied with elsewhere.
for Tim and Maggie
drycrikjournal 