The place where you laid to rest

now dried grayed clay,

rocks gather-in the heat of day

lodged beneath the mountains above you.

Of humble color, a tanned saddle brown of the years,

as miracles to you when the abandon children

stayed with you.

Those countless children fed by your hands,

when even the animals came to your doorstep.

Souls sought your soul for the claim of a home.

I rested there from time to time.

Your voice cried out like a warrior,

apparent by the ranking of Tec-5

a trained soldier,

the farmland stood up for you,

with tender submission to your feet

as stricken bones became your wounds.

You knew the mesa and its waterholes, dry gullies, death spots,

across the open land the carcasses float in the broken sandstones.

You miss nothing; each child came to you in sight of God.

and even now

imprints upon the soil testify of you,

shouldering a small bird,

using an coke-a-cola wooden boxes

supporting your shorten leg

as the other leg kicked them into their place

making providence your footstool.

Even the walls speak to you,

the adobe bricks crumbling, turning into dust.