Mesa Verde

a poem of our national parks

I want to touch the walls, to lean on them,
To sit. I want to crawl through keyhole doors
And dig around the burnt sienna floors.
I'll sift the ashes, dirt, and look for shards
Of painted clay and stuff them in my pack.
I want to raid the granaries, concealed
On lofty ledges, steal the pots still sealed
With pitch, and put them on my study shelf.
I want to climb down in a kiva pit
And pry up stones in search of arrowheads
That must be lost like coins in sofa seats.
I want to search for graves on mesa tops,
And finding, loot them of their yucca mats
And turkey-feather capes. I'll take the beads
Of turquoise, silver, abalone shell.
I want to waste no piety on ghosts
That some say dwell within the canyon walls.
I think they quit these places long ago.
No protest carries on the easting wind.
No spectral power arrests my grasping hands.