Gardens of Sand and Cactus

    of barbed wire， the iron Grandfather left.

    Chips chunks³ from a salt block mired⁴ in sand，

    that tongue-rubbed marble artwork of the West，

    anywhere cows roam——not buffaloes⁵ that lick

    their salt from cactus⁶ and the bones of coyotes.

    Takes bones， a skull⁷， when she sees one.  Takes snakeskin

    like twisted strips of film.  Looks under yucca

    for the best， six feet at least.  But fierce

    grandfather snakes don't rattle⁸ until they're sure，

    so she listens before she stoops.  Finds horseshoes to pitch，

    any flint or curved stone shaped like a tool.

    Tugging⁹ our last child's Radio Flyer in the pasture，

    brings pigments¹⁰ back， even the burnt sienna bolus

    of owls¹¹.  Scrapes umber from banks of the Brazos，

    however dry， gold dust where bobcats marked the stumps¹².

    Packs， stacks it all.  Takes time， fans with her hat，

    then hauls that wagon¹³ wobbling to our house.

    Amazed that she makes gardens of cactus and sand，

    I miter frames to hang whatever she's found

    and salvaged¹⁴ as art， even rocks she cuts and tumbles

    in a barrel grinding like sweet， hand-cranked ice cream，

    turning this desert we call home into babies' mobiles，

    wind chimes and swings， bird feeders in every tree.