Lines West: April 20, 2012

White Cloud

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)


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