written By
You drove, so I tried to describe them, witches
dancing, opening their arms
to the mountains, Sangre de Cristo.
These trees have their own mission.
Their bark is black and each limb
has its own life to live. That’s what I said.
You said ok, poet,
they might be bigtooth maples
Rio Grande cottonwoods
or could be salix willows–invasive,
destructive. It doesn’t matter
what we call them.
The altitude has made my head fluffy,
and I think they have no name
except a secret kept by sage and cactus,
lit up late in the day, reaching
out to the earth, unnaming us.
