Putting away bags and clothes,
some unwashed
with pieces of
Colorado in the pockets.
Standing and looking
through walls
at scenes invisible here.
Trying to explain
what I saw, where it was,
to disinterested parties
occupied with other things.
Regaining some
sense of motion in
the everyday when in fact
the world starts and
stops where there
is red soil.
Forensic scientists years from now
examining my clothing
and shoes find traces
and evidence
I was not really from
this place.
In my belongings
too many things
suggesting a connection to
evergreens and aspen,
river-washed stone and rose quartz.
(c) Nita Walker Boles
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