At the foot of majestic peaks
that touch eternity
is ageless Globe,
the land my thoughts won't leave alone.
Driving there I saw
bright flowering mesquites
that dress rose-colored hills in fiesta.
Familiar slag, weathered tailings, glittering cottonwoods
line dry Pinal Creek that divides the town.
(There was a time
when life in Globe was drama.
Prosperous, sufficient, parochial.
A purple-mountain paradise found.)
Higher, among tall pines.
Wild grapes grow
following some mysterious code.
There's a presence up there you can feel.
At night, especially, it floats
down those canyons like an ether.
It revives memories, gives you a sense of self.
As the day dissolved
through beautiful, wooded Ice House Canyon.
once picturesque downtown looked neglected.
Discolored storefronts mocked nostalgia.
Buildings sagged as if dropping
through the cracks in history.
(All right for tourists, but I was born there.)
I sought out Bunch Guerrero
who always knows how to say things.
We embraced, roared, told harmless lies.
He cursed the government,
swore Globe was well and
had I not stopped by
it would have been a day
like any other.
That day merged with the past.
I came away persuaded
our memories don't leave us;
they are a part of our spirit,
they linger there
in the cleft of our soul.
Copyright © 1994, 1995, Ricardo M. Lucero, all rights reserved.
Used with permission of author.