What The Wind Brings

Summer Childhood 1960s 

From the Willcox Playa,

raking off the crackled surface,

a grumbling, dust-driven monster.

From a short distance, a peculiar spitefulness— 

the wild scream of thick wind and dirt churns up

and attempts to bury Willcox before it rains,

making for some anxious afternoons, 

relieved by friends, cookies and milk,

and an ongoing game of Monopoly.

From: Short Poems On How We Ramble:

Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 19

Passages

It isn’t like marching nor ticking like a metronome.

Humans, animals, and the world have their mixed rhythms.

The passage of time, our perception of its passing,

seemingly slow in our youth, faster the older we get.

Even the silences of the Huachuca Mountains, 

the immense expanse of the Willcox Playa, 

the ebb and flow of tides,

and the seductive grasslands

have their own mingled cadences.

We play music to feel a steady rhythm, 

to step out of the push of time

that keeps us off balance and out of sorts.

And in our meandering, we take time

to think of the passage of lives,

of children to grandchildren,

of loved ones, the aging of brothers,

sisters, friends, and lovers.

The past slips away like fading light; 

the future arrives unnoticed in the here and now.

We let go our regrets; we hold on to our joy.

We sing, we dance, and the music plays on.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpublished MS p. 48