an Arizona morning

as the sun danced his way
into the waterbearer’s realm
on his journey
through imagined pictures
etched on celestial canvas,

the air was dry and cool
enough that my mother wore
an orange brown poncho
with brown silk fringe
over the rounded belly
that was me,
as they walked together
through the February bustle
of the park

too early for the cactus to bloom.
steering her away
from the cholla,
my farther wore short sleeves
and a beard to hide his baby chin,

and the world was dry and bright
and smelled of sand
and ice cream