Ruin, Peñasco Blanco

I stand in ruin with the ceiling beneath my feet,

inside shale the wind and rain made into steps,

among battered doorways and left behind places,

shards of pottery offer remnant beauty.

I stand in ruin and it stands for me,

ancient and hallowed rising up,

for the woman who made this patterned jug,

to hold what gives life when life didn’t

keep her in its lofty arms. Gods bat their teeth,

ancestors grimace for what they’ve left behind,

untouched with the pain of leaving,

always in search of an offering for new life.

Ruin, Sand Canyon

The stones sing of the great mountains

beyond this abandoned village,

beyond the safety of the spring walls

and hummingbirds throttling into bloom.

I climb to find the gods playing in the runoff,

out of the stream, a woman dressed in white,

bearing corn, tells how this kiva fell into piles

of rock, before the piñon grew through its cracks.