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Tumbleweed
Trembling on outstretched hand
thistle whirls away on the slightest kiss of a breeze
floats over mesquite bosque
and spider webs of dirt bike trails
soars over muddy river channels
winding between fields of chili and cottonwood sentinels.
Caught in the updraft of a summer storm
thistle clings to the back of a billowing thunderhead
roaring skyward
rides over mesas and mountain tops
races over endless plains crisscrossed by train tracks
and interstates and blue highways
and other roads less well traveled.
Snagged on the jacket of a red-headed stranger
thistle rides along past slaughter houses
auto plants and rusting iron works
to a city of skyscrapers
where there are whole blocks of department stores
and theaters
and streets of nothing but Chinese restaurants
and libraries guarded by stone lions.
Brushed free thistle whirls over ball fields
locked up tight with rusting chain link fence
dances over beds of pale pink roses and daffodils
pirouettes over emerald carpets
guarded by sharp-eyed gardeners
with steel tipped blades.
Landing in the crack of a broken up sidewalk
thistle puts down roots
sends out purple blossoms
and dreams of posole and star-filled nights
and of riding the wind.
Billy Garrett is an architect with a graduate degree in anthropology who works in New York City for the National Park Service. Raised in the Southwest, he plans to retire in Las Cruces, NM where he will devote more time to writing and sustainable design. (August 2007)