the red earth
of my childhood:
La Bajada Hill
against rain-blackened
summer mountains,
Santa Fe
abandoned racetrack—
stalls all standing open now,
no quiet whicker of horses
moss roses
in the patio,
this last day of July
linden shadow
on the pale adobe wall,
the ghost of the old cottonwood
And one from just before I left for college, which has swum back to my mind:
croquet in the dark
at the finish of summer,
before we part ways
—Christie
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