Something about the dry heat and the sharp autumn light take me back to Santa Fe and the quiet magic of that place.
I can only hope that one day takes me back to its sun drenched streets brimming with turquoise and silver, the textiles piled on corners.
My heart can still see the Native Americans adjusting their wares on blankets in front of the old city hall.
Art pouring from store fronts, and sidewalks peregrinated by men in cowboy hats and boots, skinny rope ties and woolly vests, jeans and a gunman's mustache.
A city soulful and happy in its waterless perch, its far off corner of the earth.
2 comments:
If only I too could sport a gunman's mustache.
you know, though Santa Fe is not my own personal brand of magic, i truly understand how magical it is. and i respect that. if i only shifted my molecules over a half and inch, i'd be right there with you. i sort of feel this way about the ghost towns in colorado we used to go through on my way to see my grandparents when i was a kid. it's magnetic!
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