In a drift of sage
your smooth bones remain,
rusted bark gone
along with your life of leaves.
I would have liked to ride
in the stage that made its way
to Santa Cruz,
this low mountain pass
more than just a day hike then,
when you grew
young and fast.
Category Archives: February 2013
My One True Ocotillo
So dry, all spine—
I thought maybe you died,
but with the rain
you’re armored
in tiny leaves again.
I like the way you hold your flowers
just above the moon,
my one true ocotillo,
carefully scribbled
against the sky.