A Razor Edge

The jagged peaks
Cresting the Sangre de Christos
Are the product
Of immense pressure
Caused by one massive slab
Of deep subterranean shelf
Heaved skyward by another
Of inestimable force
Into cold climes of southwestern sky.

But that does not define the view.

What sets the eyes alight
Is the palette of winter pastels
Rosy hues, deep blue, purples
And virginal white
Applied by knife edge
Onto the canvas of surprise
In serrated upward strokes
Into rare, frigid air
Capped by glazed peaks
Pure as a maiden’s dream.

At the foot of the range
The basin dots with mesquite
Stunted trees
And hard scrabble brush.

Nothing, at first
Suggests charm.
Personal insignificance is the lesson
In contemplation of such wild.
Left to the elements
Survival is, at best
Improbable
And, at worst
Impossible.

Winds sweep the slopes
Numbs the face
Braces the spine
And fixes the feet.
Life in such harsh truth
Teeters upon a razor edge.