Bio Note: A lifelong Washington, DC resident, I escaped 'the swamp' in November 2021 and am traveling coast-to-coast, over a year, out of my status quo, in my VW, and writing about it. My memoir-in-progress, The Backbone of Our Lives, is about the healing journey, the quest for what Edward Abbey calls 'primal independence.' But somehow poetry is beating out prose as I attempt to express my awe (and love) on the page, lately. My poem, "High Sierra Synchronicity" was just published by Tales from the Trail. Other publishing credentials include: “How a Hawk Lured Me Out of a Dark Holler into the Creative Light;" “The Election Wasn’t Stolen, but the Inauguration Was;” “Compassion;” and “Freedom," 2 poems for a 2022 COVID Anthology Project.
It’s hard not to go all googly-eyed smitten over Santa Fe. Their skies, a dreamy baby blue, never stop smiling at you. And their voluptuous hills, rising rustic red in the distance, beckon you to inhabit them. At night, all starry-eyed, they twinkle down, flash their diamond-studded stuff so boldly that, breathless, you turn away. On Saturday, their square fills with music, a lively ranchero, yanking you off the sidelines to dance. In bustling eateries, your mouth waters with desire To savor their smokey green chile fire. Art fills their streets in showy swatches of color that, you think, go too far. But nobody’s perfect, you scrunch your nose as you gaze. In time, that fuchsia-turquoise gaudiness will grow on you. Wait, stop, you protest, just come for a visit, this can’t get serious. At the bar with the roaring kiva, pink cocktail napkin beneath perfectly-salted, pale lime margarita, Santa Fe salutes you, glasses clink, and coyly grins. Remember, they say, you picked me up.
©2022 Anne Pellicciotto
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