Family Tree Home
CROSSING THE MOHAVE DESERT ON
This desert is locked inside a yellow globe,
Its air so warm and dry and still
It seems that all the winds of time are dead
And awful heat has caused the globe to fill.
The ground glows with warmth like a boiler;
The shrubs are withered, flowers are dying.
Leaves of the smoke trees droop like a seared metal,
And in the washes willow trees are drying.
One small plane drifts within this yellow globe,
High in the sky like a sailboat in a bay;
Palo Verde trees stand limp and motionless,
Distant mountains loom as smoking stacks of hay.
The golden ball that is the sun above
Scorches the sky; No man's spirit true
Could fail to melt in heat such as this.
Warm light make one hole for cool air to
I know somewhere outside this shimmering plain
There's Cooler air and drenching rain.
|MY CHILDHOOD HILLS|
I am homesick for my mountains
My childhoods lovely hills
And the feeling that sweeps o'er me
My heart longing fills.
Their grassy windblown summits
I would cheerfully ascend;
Invite each flower and blade of grass
To be my cherished friend.
Their trails and winding roads
I'd take to passes high
To watch the moon and stars come out
Against a midnight sky.
My eyes mist for my childhood hills
Where kingly crests aspire
Against a weary sun
That sets a ball of golden fire.
I long to leave these plains below
To put all care behind;
For daughters of beauty for my soul
My lovely hills I'd climb.