hardpan
rain falling all over the range
and my wild roses are tired of sorrow,
my trumpet cups overflow –
if only the desert didn't shut down in rain
flower cups closing their furled
useless umbrellas
till we can be warm again
it was light when you left –
when your bootheels
kicked up a dust devil a mile wide
and you measured shoulders
with the rocky trail to Robber's Rim,
and your big round hatbrim
blocked out pride
still, hardpan is hardpan,
my desert has nine lives –
bum-rushing the rain down canyon
in flash floods of sensation
to a deep, still womb –
and, Cowboy, whatever the damn weather
hardpan survives
© 2007 by Beth Stevens
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