Monastery of Christ in the Desert,
Abiquiu, New Mexico
Your skirt rises and juts, forms
ridges of sandstone and quartz,
rickrack of junipers stitched
along the hem of piercing sky.
Fabric electric in ochre and rust.
The blood of heaven courses
the Chama – feeding chamiso,
cottontail, and coyote alike.
Hummingbirds flit like attending
angels in Russian sage. The folds
of your garment swaddle every
living thing in your embrace.
Who are you, Lord? And who am I?
St. Francis asked, over and over.
We quiver and bow in the wind.
A place so thin we almost glimpse
your face hiding among white billows.