Lines West: April 20, 2012
The white cloud is not afraid
to pass through the black mountain.
She floats like breath, the warm arms
of a mother in the sky
drifting gentle over the world,
dissolving toothed peaks
that swell, streaked with mist.
She sleeps in the sky,
becomes water, becomes a crooked piñon,
a woman carrying a bundle,
a boy under a three-hundred-hear-old oak
over and over playing a note
on a small, metal harmonica.
— Sandra Dorr (from Desert Water)