Abuelo
Summer evenings, when I walk down Phoenix Avenue,
I see an old man sitting in a faded white lawn chair.
Dark work pants, dark shirt buttoned tight,
neck lean and bristly as a sunflower stem,
a grandfather moved to town,
bearing the heat and Albuquerque noise.
Grease-stained Stetson, profile simple as a sheep hook,
probably a pastor all his life, maybe in the Naciminetos
or in the mountains beyond Truchas.
I like to think he can hear the distant tinkle of the bellwether,
the bark of his dog, the murmuring bleats of his herd.
I know he is not my grandfather,
yet it is a blessing to see him
quiet as a country road at dusk,
common, hardy, at sunset, pure gold.
No comments:
Post a Comment