Pallid sun rolls across the Sierra Madres,

sowing and striking life. Palms arise

quivering, and isn’t this valley luminous?

Glowing, bejewelled with what’s unimaginable

for two people from the Midwest.

This is how we’ll forget.

El Mogote ringed by botanical love,

Mesozoic ferns, marigolds, and rose.

Mottled bluffs stretch out their arms

in the distance and we consider leaving.

But something calls my name,

swallows us whole.

Moonquake, brown sugar, raw earth

longing for meaning. To revel

in the desert’s rare moment of moistness,

liberated from dust. Blue orchids

in tousled hair, scent of mint,

rapid river, damp wood.

Light adorns you and you adore me.

I call your name and the wind

swallows it. We must already return.

And isn’t love dangerous?

You’re skilled in the art of digging,

leaving neat holes behind.

How I’ll forget you when the sun

rolls next, illuminating old wounds –

the valley’s, not mine.