shards and fine powder,
pinon pines he had planted as a windbreak
to the north
that was our youth.
by the wind, born out of reach,
to a mere thumbprint on the glittering air.
We needed to keep him there,
we in our serapes of tallow, sweating'
beneath the June sun,
raking our fingers through the dropped needles,
he chips of shale and flecks of mica
and sun-shot glass, working him into the topsoil
around the roots of the trees
that so ached for a mineral boost,
they drew him him in.