Poem for Monday, October 14, 2013

Tumbleweed

Cutting through this mountain town--
that windblown ball of twigs
in a perpetual hurry,
rolling

        past the murder of dumpster crows
behind the Chinese restaurant,

        past the drunk native woman singing
in the little league diamond,

        past the jackhammers and chunks
of uprooted asphalt,

        past the tawny beer bottles clanking
in forgotten brick alleys,

        past the unlit Virgen de Guadalupe
candles on cluttered desks,

        past the leaves and the pine needles
dying mid-air deaths,

       past the the drunk native man flipping
the bird at a bus stop,

       past the dew-kissed grass recovering
from the morning frost,

       past the two bundled lovers sharing
cigarettes in the sun.

Godspeed, then, desert seeker--
we understand how winter
stalls for absolutely
nothing.