Rare

You perched and waited

like some desert bloom,

with seasons' rain stored in your trunk

You sat on Terracotta stone

--clay mountains

under a Western, Denim sky

Your petals, Coral-coloured,

rivaled the sea-reefs to the South

You were a masterpiece.

And like sun-baked Pueblo steps,

you blazed Orange in the heat

You were the daisy-studded pitcher

swinging sweet tea and whiskey

to strangers, all

And like a long lost people,

you did not weep in the course wind

of an Indian summer

You were a rare beauty

and parched though you be,

you still bloomed

Like a village fire

you sang with the stars

in tones of Navajo Yellow

You were the voice the Brown mouse heard

and a home to even the beetle-skinned scorpion

You did not envy greatly, for your soul

was better painted that a sun-soaked twilight

And your Green timber

supported your airy head as it

kissed the sky

and pardoned it for its burdensome weight.

Yes, you were a rare beauty,

and for all your hardship,

you remained more delicate and more

Colourful

than a kaleidoscope brimming with

Butterflies' Wings.