Psalm Above Santa Fe
16 March 1987
by John Judson
What is it we
come to
between mountains,
long crests tipped white,
dusted on their flanks, while
light spreads out
before us,
pouring in our laps,
soft as iris tongues,
and
the lungs finally
filled with a freshness
unwilled
because unlooked for:
sparse grass,
rocks
announcing in a weathered language
something eyes
seem to have known
before they came to the way
called sight.
Even the animals at dusk,
could we see them stare at us,
have such souls.
PHOTO: Sante Fe, New Mexico, at sunset by Sean Pavone, used by permission.
POETRY and PLACES 