For Lilly

The new granddaughter’s home.
Years have begun to pile up
like stones from Mexican pyramids,

moved by wind and sun.
Don’t let the damn Spaniards
of my gray hair hurry anymore,

don’t let that stinking Stephen F. Austin
of my arthritic age
advance beyond Texas,

don’t let a fat, Spanish-speaking only
Sam Houston hide like a janitor in the Alamo
of my future dust.

The new granddaughter’s home
and sunstones crushed by Olmec heads
blind me with tears of joy.