Yes, nestling in your arms,

soaring peaks and troughs -

like a lover’s embrace without end,

you smell of tears

while your sons play

beneath shadowed ponchos

in the piazzas of Santa Fe,

London, and Montreal

charango, rondador, antara,

riffing flutes and strings,

panpipes blow, spiraling

up, up, up above the snow,

to plummet to the

bleeding earth below.

Now, your hips are swaying,

arms snaking, twisting

along steep tracks,

ankles turning, churning furrows

heart pouring fresh, cold streams,

cutting pain, like jagged ice,

as your smile melts

into cool, clear joy.

Your dance demands

snapping fingers, pounding feet,

new-found pulses,

old as your terraced wrinkles,

tarnished temples,

sun- burnished brow.

Come, come hear the condors

singing, floating on thermals

sweeping and swooping,

above long hidden peoples.

Come out from behind

your crevices and cracks,

life is calling -

life is calling -

her head gliding

among snowcapped clouds,

her torn feet beating

the ground, beating the ground.