Panning For Gold

For Charlie Farmer

It strikes the eye, dear heart.
New settlers, cherry haired Celts.
Granite ascetics in cowhide.

They flooded the arid
valley just this month, dear heart.
Panning for new fertile pastures.

Clearing away clutter,
dear heart. Left by the careless.
Speculated, discarded.

From where I stand, the sap
glistening from unlikely roots,
reflecting new sunlight, dear heart.

The chambers flood again.
I hear their drums at nighttime.
It beats again, my dear, dear heart.

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