homesweethome

Northern New Mexican style, my home sits deep in the evergreen foothills of the East Mountains. The juniper trees (bushes, as those out-of-staters like to demean them) and tumble weeds and little Indian Paintbrushes are about all that naturally grows in my corner of the desert—except for rock, of which there is an abundance. From the driveway to the house there is a concrete sidewalk lined with aspen trees and moss rock—native herbs and flowering bushes bloom. Not only are the terracotta stucco and white trim a classic look for the Southwest, but also our wraparound porch is lined by the typical evenly spaced wooden posts. Below the high-pitched metal roof, five vertical double-hung windows catch the morning sun. Breath-taking, the view is extraordinary; the Rocky Mountains punctuate the spacious western sky. 

Turquoise and silver of the Southwest; spicy green and red chile peppers of Albuquerque, my heart is home in the arid land of New Mexico.

What once I took for granted, absence has remembered.

What now I long for will soon be mine again.

Home is where dry desert wind swirls and the cold night air burns my lungs,

moisture in the air smells like waxen creosote blossoms and dusty tumble weeds.

Home is where clouds, dark and heavy, come only to threaten an impending storm.

Lightening clashes.

Thunder cracks.

Home is where cactus spines pierce the sunshine, jackrabbits sprint through bushes, and hot-air balloons cruise above the sandstone mesas. The houses are made out of clay and plaster, and the front lawns are xeiriscaped with gravel and native herbs.

Mud of the Rio Grand trickles by.

Water is worth its weight in gold.

Sun-painted blue and coral skies on fire; by night the vast black heavens, unpolluted with mega-city smog, flicker with bright stars.

Cicadas forever buzzing.