Friday, August 18, 2006

 Trail 347: Manzano Foothills, 2004  

Because I can’t quite catch the last late flight
from Albuquerque, I hike its scored
riverbeds to sight the granite shelves rising
behind the town, leading me to what I see
atop the southern reaches of the Manzanos:
The range’s sharp cusp rises from the river valley
where sun lights the Chupadera and the leading edge
of La Jornada del Muerte is like a dreary sea to me.
In the town where they still make wedding gowns
from the slivered dreams of home-grown cotton
There is no light from Trinity-- the seamstress does
all she can to clothe her daughters from sunny eternity.

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