Those haciendas, home to the wealthy,
los rancheros above the pounding surf,
places where tea was poured for weary travelers,
sanctuary from dust and thorns of the Chapparal.

Their opulence was simple,
Comforts hewn from oak and Torrey Pine,
Fine needle work, their only splendor.

And buried under their feet,
the rooms filled with memory
of the people who were part of the land,

under the archways and rose gardens  
lie the old women and old men
wrapped in blankets woven by forgotten hands,

Cupanas, Kumeyaay, Zuni, Navajo,
they lay sleeping so close,
listening to each other’s snores,
finding no rest in this new world.