About a month ago, Nolan was feeling sad about the move and in an attempt to cheer him up I handed him the camera and told him that I would drive him around and let him take pictures of Buckeye. Well, his pictures turned out to be just what I needed to accent this post, because around the same time, I was feeling sad about the move, and I wrote this poem. Since I'm about to pack my computer and this is my last chance to say goodbye, here it is. Consider it a love letter!
Past prickly hills to flat valley floors,
where buzzard beaks pierce the squals of dust
and fields of crunchy cotton plants in bloom
fill the desert with a false sense of Christmas snow.
In rows of homes stacked shoulder to shoulder,
young families are budding, neat and new,
and a friendly windmill waves hello across the fields
to double-wide trailers donning wind chimes and yard chochkies
and spilling over with tradition.
Where farmers work the thirsty fields of their fathers,
wrestling fruit from stubborn ground,
below a breeze that splits the stagnant air,
stale and warm and stirred in with fresh fertilizer.
But the ground seems to grow great souls,
and faith adds inches to the height of men and women
to make the tallest people in the world.
They fill church pews with dusty boots and broad belt buckles,
constantly called to lift or carry,
with backs that don't bow down.
Their stature sprouts strong and straight
like a saguaro shaft with outstretched arms,
unphased by the heat that would level anyone lesser,
they seem to soak it up.
In the shadows of backhoes,
Along the tract-home trails and in the Walmart aisles,
Under the plumes of nuclear powered smoke stacks,
In the long pick-up lines of school parking lots
and upon the barren fields of future crops,
Their noble silhouettes dot the land
and decorate the desert skyline
in worshipful imitation of the Savior,
and Buckeye becomes beautiful.