Enchanted Land

Enchanted Land

Here,

Clear, thin, pastel, winter sun. Adobe houses and walled gardens, Rounded geometric art of dwelling. The same earthy tan as the cold ground.

Solemn rows of pecan trees, relieved to not have to fight for life in winter, Relaxed in a suspended coma sleep.

Art is everywhere. Engraved into mud walls, Pressed tiles, hanging glass. The emptiness of the desert, The open sky, the dazzling breath Of ever pulsing light spilling into landscape, Both sharp and soft but always expansive. It calls one to create, It calls one to contemplate.

And I do think, as I run, Past a grove of naked weeping willows, With just a few golden confetti leaves clinging on, The same grove I walked in with my Gram, long dead, Who I still love and crave connection with. I think that I could return to this place where I came from so long ago and be happy.

I run along the canal, a vein Sometimes fed by the dying Rio Grande. A vein currently dusty and dry. I hear that they, the cowboy hat wearing farmers, Who don’t understand or respect me, though that is a two-way-street at times, Are cleaning up the pecan orchards. This results in dust that mingles with mucus In my throat. And I feel that I am drowning on mud, Made inside my body.

Clouds gather in an arc around the setting sun, Soft purple, pink and orange, Like an ethereal candle halo. It is a clear sky with wisps like breath in cold air. On the opposite end of the bowl, Jagged mountains like old fingers, Waving goodbye.

I run back to the first home I can remember, Where my grandpa has lived alone for 8-years. I strip down to shower and discover That some desert plant has reacted inside me, As an alien invader, and I am broken out in hives.

I am a foreigner in this land.

Some places are meant to be loved, And left to be visited.

Goodbye, my enchanted land.