At White House Ruins
I hike into Canyon de Chelly
dream of Pueblo Bonito, place beyond
the horizon, find pictographs —
blue duck, white duck, green feathers
red heads, gold beaks. They wait to swim
should Chinle Wash flow wide again.
Etched in sandstone cliffs
the drawings sleep beneath jimsonweed
salt cedar, Russian olive trees. I wish
for wind to change direction, breathe down
the canyon, with hope. The old Navajo
herding goats by the dry stream
says it happens every thousand moons —
with luck, maybe today. Below ruins
reflected dark in afternoon sun
only she sees Kokopelli dance past flutes
raised golden in slanted light.
The real ruin is my life. No sacred ducks
swim back and I cannot conjure
ancient ones powerful enough
to erase my soul. Streams of sand
will never flow east to Santa Clara Pueblo
where, rumor says, hope vibrates within you
and pottery is blacker than black.
(first published by PoetryMagazine.com)
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At White House Ruins