“Reading poetry is an adventure in renewal, a creative act, a perpetual beginning, a rebirth of wonder.”
(Edward Hirsh)

in celebration of

BYRD BAYLOR (1924-2021)

 

They say you plant happier corn

if you take your time

and that squash tastes best

if you’ve sung it

slow songs

while it’s growing.

They do.

 

Anyway,

the desert has

its own kind of time

(that doesn’t need clocks).

That’s

the kind of time

snakes go by

and rains go by

and rocks go by

and Desert People

go by too.

 

That’s why

every desert thing

knows

when the time comes

to celebrate.

 

by Byrd Baylor

excerpted from The Desert Is Theirs

(1987 Atheneum)

 

Before I moved to Arizona, I didn’t know about deserts.

I didn’t know about washes, dry gullies full of rock and sand and weeds.

In October 1991, I experienced my first rainstorm here.

Water poured in a fury from the sky.

Streets disappeared.

A moat imprisoned our apartment building.

Children and adults emerged and sploshed with joy in newly formed ponds.

Within hours, the waterworld was gone.

Only strewn palm fronds and grassy detritus its calling card.

By February, by which I mean winter most everwhere else,

nearby foothills were awash in a faint green sheen.

The desert was blooming.

Before I moved to Arizona, I didn’t know about deserts.

I didn’t know there could be beauty in such an unforgiving environment.

It wasn’t long before I was the mother of two small children, our second being a native Arizonan, which was somewhat unusual in the early ‘90s. So many people were moving to Phoenix to take advantage of the quality of life and lower cost of living it offered. Byrd Baylor’s books were among the first that I found through story times at the local library. I grew to love Arizona. I am still surprised when I say to people “We raised our family here.” I had never imagined I would stay. Baylor’s words are a love song to the desert I now call home.

 

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