| The Gift of Boquillas |
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| Come with me and walk the sunset |
| here, beside the Rio Grande |
| where the river carves the earth slow |
| and trails the silence grandly |
| through the bottom of this labyrinthine land. |
| Come, where mountain shoves heavily against mountain |
| and ridges spew jumbled rocks, and plants that slash. |
| Where mountains push down bold into old Mexico, |
| into older centuries |
| where people with different grandfathers |
| walk amidst a different poverty. |
| Where the people of Boquillas prepare for twilight |
| in a different way, |
| their faces turning from ancient tasks |
| to listen for the evening echoes |
| and watch for the golden flare. |
| You come too, and watch for the golden flare. |
| It comes sometimes |
| racing eastward out of the Chisos |
| quivering |
| across the great sky bowl, blazing |
| gold gold gold! |
| its rhythm |
| beating, golden, eternal, |
| a golden flood over Castelon. |
| Come, now, with me |
| to where the ocotillo turns black and graceful |
| and clasps the throbbing sky |
| and pours it golden into your waiting hands. |
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| (Copyright © 2000) |
