A photo from 1929 shows Aunt Chris
and Uncle Frank in jeans and cowboy boots
in front of the adobe house
on La Cinta ranch,
sun shining down from the turquoise sky
of New Mexico,
my uncle’s face alive with joy.

Twenty-seven years later, when I was eleven,
my family took a Sunday drive to see them,
their little house next to a two-lane highway,
shade trees in front and a field in back.
He looked at her, even then,
as though he still
couldn’t believe his luck.

The alignment of the stars and the secret
ways of fate have brought me many gifts:
The Little Squeegy Bug, my cousin Lynelle,
the apple orchard, Oz books, a snowy owl,
Professor Hand, the Roybal Café in Peñasco,
astrology, a pilot’s license, conversations
with trees, my dog Barney, cosmic kisses,
and poetry, but so far,
never a man
who couldn’t believe his luck.

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