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Poem

Mornings fade into evenings, evenings slip into nights.
Day colors spill from their pails, then seep into
valleys, wind caves and shale.

The Painted Desert bleeds into a Stygian hue
as the heat reaches up to embrace the moon
and soon, nocturnal eyes will glow starry bright.

She is a stern and hardened matron, giving homes to
venomous lodgers, leathered skins and prickly spikes,
nurturing the Eagleclaws and Buckhorn Cholla,

seldom shedding tears, yet seducing hikers with
her raw beauty and enticing guile, beckoning
well-worn travelers, luring them in with her temptress smile, 

wagging a crooked finger while breathing sweet, hot breath.
Her brilliance inspires painters, giving passion to photographers,
scribes, and past homes with heirlooms to Navajo tribes.

Though the sky grows dark with oranges and pinks slipping away,
they are resurrected at dawn, when cactus wrens scold
rattlers coiled by rocks, commanding them to dens.

The Painted Lady is harsh, watching with lavender eyes,
scarlet lips, and a throat of dust- thirsting for a drink.
She wears skin of leather, powdered with a coat the color or rust.

But she does no intimidate me with her sharp nails, hot breath,
and painted face- for she once was my neighbor.
And though years pass by, her radiant beauty never pales.

My great grandfather, "Sani" is buried somewhere deep
in her bosom. I placed a stone and etched his name above
the place where he now sleeps in this land.

The epitaph is covered by a tawny shroud
blown in from the Niyol- so I brush away the
offending residues with one swift, sweep of my hand.

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