Steven Berrier

A Year in Santa Fe

All winter we hope for blizzards to chafe the vacation khaki from our skins, but New Mexico storms are brief. A moment of cinemascope, then they stop when the camera turns away.

On December mornings, the Plaza is an old black and white photograph, where Native faces are as blurry as local history.

Sky is milk above Tesuque Peak
rush to the market
for rations of wine and biscochitos.

In spring we nudge
past flip-flopped hippies
their pony tails bloom in the static air.

Summer sky is a caldera, storm clouds flow in like lava from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Thunder boils the air. Drops as cold as fireballs, hail like pumice beats the hoods and windshields of retreating Texans.

August sun smells like cherries
shrunken heads nestled in muck
of rotten mint at the roots.

November snow comes
a coat of paint
over the headstones of autumn.