Santa Fe Healing

Stark blue, sharp blue:
out of town, muted edges
of mountains silhouette. In town,
terra-cotta adobe outlines.
Ancient cottonwoods line the streets;
their furrowed bark holds history.
But you have to know the language,
the hieroglyphics of bark, to understand.

I do not read bark.
But I am informed by the furrows—
they meet the pattern of my own deep fissures
running up my sides, running down my spine.
Old wounds, old growth;
new understanding takes root
deep in soft earth,
rests against sharp blue.

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