I found this cardboard
canyon in a narrow shop:
hand-colored, the ink
held its hue for years
and the antique type never faded.
Only a few square inches wait
for me to mark it with my touch.
The one-cent stamp the card requests
won't fly it to you now,
sleeping in the canyon's depth.
You said the yellow creosote
that blooms along the river
predicts the rain. I want to be
like that green shrub,
hardy in the desert, so that
you will yearn for me
when the wind blows the flower's
scent into your body
and you think of rain.
(c)Margaret J. Tinsley
This poem appeared in The GSU Review, Fall 1998.