by Melisande Luna

Created on: May 20, 2007

Tumbleweed

There are no tumbleweeds in my desert
to slither through bighorn fences,
bounce across blacktop,
smack yellow lines.

Just wind to blow the sand around,
mined from pitted faces of volcanoes.
Chip, bounce and gone again

like melted ice that filled flats,
watery richness spread for miles,
snaking through washes where men
led burros to thirsty deaths.

Night comes like it always has,
a bowl of cool sherbet slathered on tongues,
washes away the grit of days spent
beating down a mountain.

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