Photograph courtesy of Bill Johnson under CC SA 3.0  license

“The mountains were so wild and so stark and so very beautiful that I wanted to cry.” Jane Wilson-Howarth, Snow-fed Waters

there has always been the wind and on that day
it was pewter, playing tag with afternoon clouds,
but dawn was as clear as window glass and
the distant Sangre de Cristo Mountains were
the lost backdrop to my old cellular visions and
the subject of fine artists, though none to be seen

galleries were hung with signs “gone fishing,”
so we sat on a rough bench to eat our churros,
held mugs of champurrado, sweet and foamy,
stayed to see the sun setting at that far point
were the trees appear sparse and the highest
peaks showed themselves, symbols of promise

we waited to see the earth curl around sky’s
soft edge, somewhere…