Run, run, run
sun hot, dust throat dry
Look, it’s the windmill
a tumbleweed spins by

first rung breached
second, easier still
wind lifts me, I climb
look up, not out, not yet

over the desert silence
between gusts, blades shake
every quarter turn, a squeak,
the whole tower sways

if I go to the peak I might see
Kentucky bluegrass, my river
my sidewalks to roller skate
Granny shaking salt on fat, warm

tomatoes in July mid-garden
where we suck the juice, let it run
down cheeks and chins till sun dries
tracks under smiles, over heart thrums

But, fickle Phoenix wind dies, windmill
blades hush, I turn my eyes full open
to Superstition Mountain, new home
sure the Lost Dutchman’s gold still sleeps