Helen

connecting the canyon wall, purple with iron stains,

to the green runoff river flow, the quivering tamarisk,

the pueblo downstream, poor and lovely and inviting, to you,

to the mothers there, pouring into your curious ears,

there in the school basement, with the chipped stove on the on carpet,

to the bulky gas range in our kitchen, yours and mine,

heating some mix of butter and oil over hot bread,

boiling perfect coffee from the water from the canyon,

stained purple from iron,

to the friends you eat with under the stars high above the desert,

shining down on a world grateful to be woven by you