"sea glass in the canyon..."

when we were young
the desert was our laboratory
and were anthropologists
dad with maps and shovels
small picks and soft paintbrushes
old stories of saloons and brothels
where rustlers slept with
guns for companions and
an one eye on the door

he read of apothecaries and dispensaries
where old doc mcCafferty dosed men and horses
on the same elixirs...potions
poured from bottles of every
shape and
size.

we would map it out all week and
on saturday we would count out paces
from the large boulder near the riverbed
and begin to dig.

bottles of amythest, cobalt, the palest
sea glass blues and and greens...the red
sand of a southwest canyon our beach
of treasures

once home again, we'd wash, and rince and
polish them to place in a window so that
mother could imagine the sea when soft-hued
glass turned light into the colors of maine
and dream of gulls, and shells, and the
rhythm of surf and sand...the ebbing and flowing
of her heart's landscape