Like a pioneer daughter,
I am drawn to purple dusks
sifting over mountain silhouettes,
and long gold mornings
pricking out the edges of the plains,

pulled to the red geometries
of desert-blasted rock,
to forests sentinel and green
and weeping possibilities.

I will go weightless over
blue-shock waterfalls,
drop infinities into a threshing bowl,
and spin leaf-lost in eddies wild
as serifs from a mad monk’s pen.

These are roads I must take
forced like blood down arteries
by the need to be drunk in by all I see
and paint my country’s wild bones.

*by:Shilodance