Lived in California for fifty years
but when I think of home
I remember Albuquerque
where summers were hot
and tumbleweeds roamed,
people, with faces like mine,
gathered in adobe houses
for laughter and good food,
conversations in Spanish
and English intertwined.
The in-laws, in many cases,
blue-eyed and blond
were more comfortable
in this atmosphere
then where they were born.
Chattering of birds
from branches on a large elm
added to the merriment
but the encroachment of strangers
claiming the land as their own
stealing art forms and heritage
encasing the indigenous into symbols
only they could recognize, mystified
by the knowledge of thousands of years
imposing their ways,
shattering the core...
now all I have are memories
of a place called home.
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