The Walls at Chaco Canyon

The thin, flat stones at Chaco
make a wall
as dense as any poem.
Each wall breaks down
to syllables and feet.
The single stones make walls
and walls make rooms.
These formed a town
that stood for years
unequaled.

It's still unclear
where these squared stones once came from
or the words that come to mind
when dreaming:
mind to stone and stone again to dust,
red sand like rust.
The desert dreams of coyotes
dusk to dawn
and waits for sun to rise.

The wind is cold;
there's frost on tent and table.
Leaves are gold of cottonwood and ash.
Paintbrush is red,
but rare almost as hens' teeth,
dollars tithed.

Here a flag has very little meaning.
Walls fall down,
but these walls are fantastic.
Thick at the base and narrow at the top,
they have survived.
The skill was patient here.
Such skill takes time.
So, too, do desert walls,
built piece by piece,
each stone fit to the other
click by click.

The texture of this canyon, being quick,
is ancient as the dust,
has caught the sun
and points it like a dagger.
Seasons come,
the equinox and solstice,
words that hum like bees around a hive.
What's left is comb,
boiled up perhaps for candles.
Fire blooms
in rooms without a roof.
Blank windows shine.

You'd think a poem
of stone would last forever,
but it won't.
Few craftsmen are that patient,
using shape
and fit to hold together,
never limed
or mortared with cement.
It's not just time
and ear that mark the difference:
flat stones wait
for tourists' feet to climb and hands
to take.