1.
a small child of a wind
stumbles toward me down the arroyo
lost and carrying no light
tearing its sleeves
on thorns of the palo verde
talking to itself
and to the dark shapes it touches
searching for what it has not lost
and will never find
searching
and lonelier
than even I can imagine
the moon sleeps
with her head on the buttocks of a young hill
and you lie before me
under moonlight as if under water
oh my desert
the coolness of your face
2.
men are coming inland to you
soon they will make you the last resort
for tourists who have
nowhere else to go
what will become of the coyote
with eyes of topaz
moving silently to his undoing
the ocotillo
flagellant of the wind
the deer climbing with dignity
further into the mountains
the huge and delicate saguaro
what will become of those who cannot learn
the terrible knowledge of cities
3.
years ago I came to you as a stranger
and have never been worthy
to be called your lover or to speak your name
loveliest
most silent sanctuary
more fragile than forests
more beautiful than water
I am older and uglier
and full of the knowledge
that I do not belong to beauty
and beauty does not belong to me
I have learned to accept
whatever men choose to give me
or whatever they choose to withhold
but oh my desert
yours is the only death I cannot bear
(September, 1971)
Richard Shelton (June 24, 1933 – November 29, 2022) was an American writer, poet and emeritus Regents Professor of English at the University of Arizona.
“Requiem for Sonora” was first published in the print edition of The New Yorker, September 4, 1971.
Shelton was born in Boise, Idaho on June 24, 1933. He wrote nine books of poetry; his first collection of poems, The Tattooed Desert, won the International Poetry Forum’s U.S. Award. His 1992 memoir Going Back to Bisbee, a New York Times Notable Book, won the Western States Book Award for Creative Nonfiction in 1992, and was selected for the One Book Arizona program in 2007.