'Deserts,' the poets said, coining on
Green summer swards, 'meant drought
Between the red rocks and the dry gulch.
Little did they know of
The wild desert rat or the sly
Saguaro, standing sentinel,
Pointing lean and upturned arms
Toward the sky.

'Wastes and barren hells,' they wrote,
Turning their words on sculptured frames of brass
Beaten to the tune of the century's pulse.
Little did they know of
The golden poppy, burning up the sunlight,
Or the barrel cactus nursing its water
Like a miser's gold.
Little did they care
For the venom slung scorpion
Nursing its backbreaking squadrons.

The desert is sly;
It outlives poetry.