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.