Arizona Poems: Rain In The Desert

 
The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder 
Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning 
Its altar fires of pinyon and toyon for the day. 
 
The old priests sleep, white-shrouded; 
Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely feathered. 
On every mummied face there glows a smile. 
 
The sun is rolling slowly 
Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents, 
Coiling, uncoiling, blue black, sparked with fires. 
 
The old dead priests 
Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them, 
Above the smell of scorching, oozing pinyon, 
The acrid smell of rain. 
 
And now the showers 
Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers: 
Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring, 
Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.