In The Dry Wash

 

In my latest dream a grass-banked stream
strolls past our hearts alarmed by crisis.
Soon a canoe will come and we will toss
our burdens in and drift to the cradling sea.

Now our stakes are dirven in the dust
and the dust so caked in the corners of our eyes
we'll never cry a river in the dry wash.

Soon our cloud will come and we'll be gone
further than our first tent's shade can guess.

We neigher sow nor reap nor assault the weeds,
for gardens in the sand yield withered fruit.

The neighbors arm their eyes with private weapons.
the stones are poor tools and the valley is indefensible.
There are no wars where earth bestows unguarded gifts
and the traveller need not hide his compass from the crowd.

Our camp is sieged by time, rootless dying vines.
When the season's done our zephyr rain will come
and we'll leave our pikes rammed in the dry wash.