Missing the Southwest

I've been eating Jalapeños and wearing turquoise, a sure sign that I miss the Southwest. I wrote down a few things that spoke to me of home. I'm going to share them, raw as they may still be.

Drought


My father philosophizes,
recounting a childhood of episodic happenings,
ice-covered street lights in New York,
seven sibling summers spent sharing
less than I had to myself in a day,
fourteen year olds' championship basketball games,
And I still have the trophy to prove who won.
"Remember to drink a lot of water.
That's people's problem. Too much coffee.
It dehydrates you. You already start behind."

As if a little more water would solve everything.
And maybe it could,
raising daughters under the speckled desert sky it made sense.
Water.
And now, as he ages it must ring truer still.
Water.
Red embers of Celtic whorls and temper
cooling as if they were a doused campfire
crackling as we drifted off
accompanied by coyote songs.

A humbled Saul,
turning to his Christ.


Roaming Home

We are of star dust,
heavenly suspended dirt,
wholly clay and wholly light.

We are the conversations between ancient gods,
spoken into being,
but called into life.

We are agents and creators of our lives
leaving what remains
to larger hands.

We roam
between sky and earth scenes
Seeking now one home, finding then another.

In ever-widening circle patterns
of wolves and owls calling in the desert
we find our center.

Even Clever Coyote
Had a place among the stars.