Here, all these tiny flowers,lit on limber stems,
sprung up from ground,
in blue of sky and blue of eye...
of pink and white of wedding gown...
that 'handed down'...cream,,,
of lavender, and purple sage,
and all...so spare,
no gaudy showing of their spring,
as home made as a farm girls bonnet,
or a cowboy's jean...
upon this dance hall floor
of wind blown sand,
this golden plumb,
of plain spun mean...
right here, where we were led...
to perfect little stars,
of fives, of fours, of threes...
so, almost overlooked...
come out to greet us
with their secret math,
of petals and their frugal ways...
thus, are we met...
by heaven...so profound.
Oh, now...
among these cactus bristled wastes...
where dreams have died for some,
our dreams are born,
as all the life gathered, watches...
waiting on our kind...
to see, our worthiness...or no...
will we forsake this land or,
dwell, and pray our thanks
of this new home?
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo credit: Vladimir Dinets
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