Some walk by the shards, thoughts elsewhere. 

Some stop to pick up and pocket a few bits, souvenirs 

Of the hike. Some arrange them into pyramided stacks, 

Enhancing the connection between heaven and earth. 

Some note the glaze and shape, clues to the maker's era. 

Some, thoughtlessly, callously, fling them into space. 

Some stand, piece in hand, imagining the woman 

Or child or man who held the vessel whole, what it meant 

To live atop a mesa, in the wilderness we call New Mexico, 

Then—part of a place unmarked on any map, a place 

Held only in the minds of those who fought and worked 

Amid the arid high desert landscape, who called it home. 

A dry snow has fallen on Tsankawi this Christmas eve, 

Wind skitters it into drifts, uncovering, revealing, this.

—

A Lake Michigan Sunrise

If feels like a sleepy sunrise. 

None others are about. 

The cold is daunting. 

No one cared to join my walk, 

content to lounge in bed, 

tired from yesterday's festivities—and rightly so. 

No doubt I appear introspective 

plinking stones into the lake, 

watching the ripple-effect. 

Appearances deceive. 

It wasn't my choice to walk by myself,

but theirs to stay in bed. 

It's peaceful walking on the beach

this Christmas morning—alone, yet not alone. 

`