Northeast Is My Home

 

In the time that calls itself Tucson

in the stories I tell to myself

is sadly a wasteland, barren rocky churned-up earth

that blew into my husband's chest

and though it did not take him, our love breathed it's last breath.

I tried to love those crumbling hills

land north of Mexico destined for desolation

in that desert that had never won my heart.

I would cover myself from the crazy sun

and climb the foothills so far from my door

but he went with me less and less

saying that the desert was killing him

I scrubbed the dust that called itself earth

from the walls, and the heels of my cracking feet

and I would say we must go, let us go back to the northlands

and he said no.

In the time that calls itself Tucson

in the deepest bottom of my heart

I wished so much to go on home

and he really meant to meet me there

but finally he couldn't bare

to leave the desert evermore.

Lament

In the dew that washes summer morning freshly new
I thought I, in tiny bit of meadow, could see you
The Ones who've passed, having crested the hill that leads to longest night
This morning's damp brings back to me tears cried with all my might
Love has a dark side, the fear that love will end
It's true and there's no shoring up the boat to dodge the bend
I take you in my arms and ask that we love and always will
Along this misty morning, cross the meadow to the hill.
                            -Nancy Pine Beers, October '13