Poverty Flat

As the morning broke I held my hat

In stunned amaze on Poverty Flat.

The mountain there, in granite might,

Was edging through the stubborn night

And shafts of sunlight vaulting high

Were golden trumpets in the sky.

Where the canyon flung its gates apart

I could hear the rush and pulsing heart

Of the restless river coming down

To kiss the valley and bless the town.

On burnished wings the gulls came on

To fly their ritual of the dawn,

Soaring in rhythmic do-si-do,

With the barbaric autumn there below.

Mood music spiraled from a lark

Perched on a bush in a yawning park

Of sage and yucca and tangled wood--

The props of beauty where I stood.

When I walked away I wondered that

They ever had called this Poverty Flat.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)