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The Gift of Boquillas
 
Come with me and walk the sunset
here, beside the Rio Grande
where the river carves the earth slow
and trails the silence grandly
through the bottom of this labyrinthine land.
Come, where mountain shoves heavily against mountain
and ridges spew jumbled rocks, and plants that slash.
Where mountains push down bold into old Mexico,
into older centuries
where people with different grandfathers
walk amidst a different poverty.
Where the people of Boquillas prepare for twilight
in a different way,
their faces turning from ancient tasks
to listen for the evening echoes
and watch for the golden flare.
You come too, and watch for the golden flare.
It comes sometimes
racing eastward out of the Chisos
quivering
across the great sky bowl, blazing
gold gold gold!
its rhythm
beating, golden, eternal,
a golden flood over Castelon.
Come, now, with me
to where the ocotillo turns black and graceful
and clasps the throbbing sky
and pours it golden into your waiting hands.
 
Carolyne Butler
(Copyright © 2000)