Peak

The shadows we rushed by always pulled us back around the kitchen table. Trailer park dances, jobless nights of Parcheesi and even the day Mom’s flannels were ripped by the anger. I still see the eye-daggers ripping them first, making his hands seem stronger than they were. “Hard times are hard times,” she said “but we sure are rich in dogs.” And she was right—Four dogs larger than our Sky-blue house on the mesa could hold.

Somehow she always knew that Jewels lived in the broken things.
Somehow, that overnight our hearts would grow like the Sandias through the dark, past the clouds and rest by this orange sun. The roots to their kisses reach to those broken shadows now. All the way down to the soil where tension-talks bred love-roots too thick to break.

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