The sun-baked clay of earthen walls decays,
Besieged by snowy drifts of cotton seed.
Forgotten are the ranchoâs golden days,
Now lost to wind and every choking weed.
The courtyard, once a pride of stone and tile,
Is tangled now in Palo Verdeâs snare;
Green branches weave through every empty aisle,
And thorns defend the silence lingering there.
The Starry Mountains rise in silvered light,
Sierra Estrellas Vista, distant and sublime;
They once were held within this home's clear sight,
Before the dust and heavy hand of time.
The house dissolves into the desert floor,
A ghost of grace that looks on them no more.
Sierra Estrella Vista
Cotton Citrus Farms, Goodyear