Editor’s note: This poem was submitted with a letter from an Arizona resident whose family owns a historic cabin near Taos.
A lava flow is not an even thing
It hardens rough; air bubbles and sworls
If you hike on it, you’ll likely cut yourself,
For it’s not molten, anymore, but tough.
A smooth, smooth road rolls by it
Cars of steel with sentient eyes
Ride the asphal track
An aspen hovers in a patch of soil,
A rasping raven cuts the cold air.
The mother mountain, cloven,
Looks down with regal frown.
Any year now, any century, any millennium
She’ll fling forth a coverlet for the Malpais
– Joleen Ovend, Arizona