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Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Far Away Grand Daughter

Far Away Grand Daughter

washed out runs of desert chaparral dripping like liquid candelabra

songs sung low and sweetly to sleeping babies dreaming

storms pass through their minds as they reach a new home

thunder rolls across the dunes toward the mountains

as they stand so superstitious in the distance

minds eye is upon the rose bud as it blooms

a winter wonderment in this flooded land above the delta

with currents lulled into tranquil riffs against the rocks and cacti

sleep now baby girl and dream of songs on windy nights

like lonely horns of sounding love come for you in waves

water levels are higher than the highest ground below the waiting station

the noise of rushing movements is like a lullaby that keeps her silent

a tempest takes no pleasure in its work tonight, but it is unrelenting

as sands of shifting clockworks on ancient rhythms shift away from us

pouring all that is historical into the waiting gulf's depression

feeding its desire for lost artifact of sun bleached soul inside bone

afterward a treasure of relics born anew to coming solar storms

marking new calendars with story become legend become fact

taught in minds that age and decay as these babies sleep through

this tumultuous monsoon that brings a sacred heart to her dreams

as she sleeps peaceful under blankets of new tradition woven with old love

these blooms of yellow rose so unnatural in their scarce beauty

wishing on their bright colors that beam against the red stones

gives dreams of safe passage to growing limbs of love

that reach up past stars and moon toward a new sunrise

like a ship to rescue unwary travelers that go back and forth

in the coldest night of stricken arid plains illuminated blue

then phosphorescent under lightning bursts that belie fingers

pushed down into the earth by their electric arthritic extension

digging up graves of lost flowers that never bloom in sunlight

only are they now revealed in visual echos of bolted aftermath

she stirs as if to listen to the songs of coyote chasing itself away

into swirling winds of wailing sorrow that she has yet to know

in its place the love of movement to hold the hands that give strength

making flowering petals pull out of stems grasping to outstretched arms

as if to hug an old man who searches for her across arroyo into night

just to tell her of the loving pride he has for her before he closes

his tired eyes to dream of a desert floor covered in blooming flowers

each one a rare magnificence that points upward to a new sun

the sun rises into dawn after the storm relents into passing

she opens her eyes as if to say hello for the first time

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