Two Poems for a Desert Artist

Lee Deffebach spent summers in Tuscarora, NV to concentrate on her painting of large abstract acrylics depicting the endless desert landscape that fed her soul.

Photo by Pietro De Grandi on Unsplash

Tuscarora

Weed Street begins and ends at the saloon.			
Twenty-five locals survive winter				      
but the population swells to fifty				
in summer when the potters come.				
Lee lives there then in her wooden boxcar
to paint canvases of long roads leading nowhere
and to smudge her urban life
with the smell of sage.
Rain lulls her to sleep
she bathes in its silkiness
in a tub outside.
From her three-walled outhouse
she watches the sunrise
and the shape of the old Basque
hiking to his sheep camp across the ravine.
Later a wrangler rides by
toward the hills to check his herd
and a line of traps that carry him
through leaner days.
“Howdy ma’am, gonna be a right nice day”
He tips his hat and spurs his roan along,
his gear clattering in the distance.
Lee’s cats present their midnight catch 
spread across the threshold as tribute
then they crunch the rodents down
and crawl inside the bedroll,
still warm and smelling of Lee.
A long thought over coffee
then a skinny-dip in the Glory Hole
a bottomless reminder of a mine disaster.
She soaks each day in its watery balm 
a desert baptism to cleanse divorce’s grime.
Full moon dances on black velvet ripples
as she floats, gazes at possibilities
in shooting stars and planets,
She listens to rowdies in the bar
playing a drunken game of Amoeba,
their songs competing with coyotes in the hills.
There are lots of ghosts in Tuscarora
some of them still alive and hobbling about
too stubborn to retreat to the ‘big city’
	of Elko or Winnemucca
Lee and the potters all must leave 
at summer’s end
and wintry Tuscarora returns
to a whisper upon the hill.

photo of Lee’s grave in Tuscarora by Sue Cauhape

Resting

            For Lee Deffebach

I've rested here so long
Wildflowers have bloomed
And died five seasons now
Covering me in a blanket
Of thorns and brittle stems.
It's quiet here, too quiet.
Only the wind whispers to the rain sometimes.
My neighbors don't have much to say 
Since they moved to this corner of town.

But a visitor came by today
She spoke in reverent tones
Thanked me for the oddest things
How I opened up her world
Taught her how to breathe and see
Defended her when belittled by a friend
She wept as she said that.

Bowing her head as if in prayer
She paused to gaze upon my eternal view
Across grasslands and sky
Then turned to leave.
Oddest thing that's ever happened to me.

Of all the people I met in my life
I can't remember her at all
But it was nice of her to visit.
It gets lonely on this hill
Where I've rested for so long.

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