When I grow up
I want to be a ghost town.
A collection of shells
scattered down the mountainside:
playthings of progress
packets of empire
fringes of the frontier
Seeds of cities
lost in rocky ground
wedged tight in hard crags
not room enough
for roots and nutrients together.
Kernels cast on hot sand
water enough
to try
and to die
dreams cast back out
carried by wind
to other sands
or rocks
or someone’s sandy loam.
In some coming Spring
a small child of uncertain age,
from untested to arthritic,
Will peer through
my unburdened window frames
and balance on my
parched thresholds,
Pry coins and tools and bones of glass
from my sleeping earth,
And in the thin, tired wind,
hear quiet stories
of where dreams come from
and where dreams go to,
And in that sad flowing softness
know that his are not alone
wherever they go.
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