by Gideon Burton
The Spanish called this place "the meadows," green
with springs within a desert. Meadows wait
in silence for the grasses' growth, the sheen
of rain to gloss their tiny flowers great
with sticky pollen for the floating bees,
loud visitors, to carry to the wind.
Vast quietness prevails, unlike the seas,
which boil and shift as though their conscience sinned.
I have seen churches built on meadows, tall
with steeples poking heavenward, and doors
ajar to let the congregation sense that all
the structure is a kind of bottom floor.
The earth can rest and wait in seasons clean
Las Vegas, restless, browns its native green.
That's it, mister. I'm blogging about you.
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