The Inheritance

NOB HILL--This was the view from one of the sidewalk tables in front of Il Vicino of the moon rising over the Sandia Mountains. It sort of reminds me of the last lines of a poem I wrote some time ago.

THE INHERITANCE

for Simone and Ivan

"Real toads
in imaginary gardens:"
not much of an inheritance
compared to 40 acres of timber
and high meadow.

A verse
ranch won't wear
out your boots the way
stirrups will, or put wild strawberry
jam in jars. There's

nowhere
to haul dreams to,
or to build that cabin, a real one
now, with a porch--and lilacs waving
hello, good-by.

Hijitos,
it's not that kind
of territory: I can't
fence it in for you like
summer pasture.

The sun,
pink in the west,
waits on the tip of a post
near Otero's barn--gone before
I mention it.


--Jon Knudsen