On the way home

Shades of green blanket the horizon,

I look

in the distance,

as my love Says,

“Looks like someone spray-painted the Mesa’s white.”

The scattered, surviving snow cowers in splotches.

And the crouching cedars stretch out

with the rabbit-like bushes

together they dance as the wind creeps through.


Everything is alive.


Our car jolts to the rise and fall

Of the ancient drums

And hums with the age-old songs.

Songs that only the privileged are to hear.

To the right,

The Peaks stand tall with a white veil

Waiting for our Father, the Sun

To kiss her forehead.


Everything is alive.


As people of the land race each other

Like they’re in the Indie 500,

But only

To escape the barren land they live on.


But to me this land that we call “Home”

Is alive.

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