To addicts who know just as I,
Live not in the material blest
When a deed is done for freedom
And my Name is truthful,
Deal me hunger:
For grace, for love
The lightning flashed
And flew off the sea last Easter.
The morning wind blew through my hair.
Sleep, gray brother of death
Stand here by my side as a white candle.
And tell me of kings who never existed.
Though I am as little as all little things
In morning numbers.
Awful truths these be
The sun is up,
Do you hear the rain?
The Death of Spring
I have not known Spring long enough
to think as quickly or halfheartedly
as the leaves do when they let the
Wind carry them away.
I have passed the moon every Solstice
and learned why women celebrate
birthdays, anniversaries and sing;
why men drink on death days.
Ruben Baca (26) is a Texan newly transplanted to Colorado. Having spent the previous seven years in New Mexico’s oil haven, Hobbs, he has spent much time among the low plains. A poet, photographer and musician, he draws inspiration from the desolate roads and endless horizons. More at RubenBaca.com