Grandma said
write the wailing baby,
scarlet, scared, then dead.
Write red canyon walls,
up and down the sandstone sides in
desperate, iron ranger strides.
Write the weathered bed and months
of nameless weeping
and the homesick drive.
Write the spectacles, starched stockings,
laundry lines, and blackboards,
pickled lips that kissed curled heads
and whispered
write that this is not a sad story.
This is not a sad story.
