I am facing the sky.
I am Rocky Mountain sunrises, marveled at by young eyes through open tents.
I am desert sunsets, colors that arc over the landscape without end.
I am speaking to the wind, with every embracing breeze and reproachful gust.
I am facing the sky.
I am planted deep and wide, in soft grass that reach towards eternity.
I am perched on leafy branches of front yard trees.
I am, “Come on, Mom! Just 10 more minutes and I’ll come inside--I promise.”
I am broken, trivial promises, as I lose myself for hours when
I am facing the sky.
I am the product of my environment, a daughter of artists and craftsmen.
A work in progress,
I am rough-hewn by nature and refined in the fire of error.
I am ransomed by divinity and strengthened by the faith I receive while
I am facing the sky.
I am…unfathomed.
