Standing among the ruins of my ancestors,
I am my father�s son.
I hear the voice of generations
echo on the wind.
Rose coloured sand and pebbles
paint the landscape.
Falling walls of stacked stones
have outlasted even the saguaros,
who take a century to grow each arm.
Rings of rock outline the remnants of houses,
walkways, the ball field.
My boots follow these to the dump,
where my fingers can search the dust.
Here I may find shards of pottery
discarded as waste a thousand years ago.
Broken clay made priceless merely by time.
I wear my hair braided in the olden style.
My skin reflects the warmth of earth.
My fingers pick through scattered rocks,
finding at last a chip of tradition
(markings as faded as these worn blue jeans)
plucked from the garbage of the forgotten past.
Sign says, �Do not remove any items from this area.�
I pocket the clay shard, staring
away into a sky that knows no clouds.
A stolen fragment of heritage
stolen back. Reclaimed.