Scott Wiggerman

Here, where mountains breathe in the distance

and skies cut around them like collages;

here, where desert floors bloom in earth tones

and browns are more prevalent than greens;

where winds go dead as if the world has stopped,

then pick up with the fury of cyclones,

air filled with the smells of piñon,

the sounds of aspens, the taste of ash;

here, where sun burns shadows clean and white,

where mud is molded and sculpted,

tin is punctured, stones are scooped from earth;

where my heart glows like a kiva.

All my life I have wanted to find home.