Abiquiu, New Mexico
By Anne Wilson - La Mesa, California, USA - 24 May 2015
In the season of Black-Eyed Susans
and desert sage, we could smell the damp
clay road to the Benedictine abbey
where each morning, we made our way
from guest-house to chapel at first light,
watching the mists rise from the river.
We promised each other that summer
we would live in the wild rooms of mountains,
harvest a forest of artichokes,
never leave the toothpaste uncapped;
we darted from field to chapel in blue jeans and sandals,
walking trails amid goldenrod,
creosote bushes shimmering in rain.
We chanted by lantern-light
in the stone chapel,
our shadows banked against the wall
larger than life.
By day, we labored with the monks
among cornfields and peppers
gathering to ourselves the sweet harvest
of youth and summer.