Drawn to the desert solitude before dawn,
she walks in the moonlight and the starlight,
listening to the mysterious rustle of the wind
in the Chamisa bushes. At dawn,
even the dust on the ground shines white
in the heart of the old capital.
Bits of straw gleam in adobe walls.

Blessed by marriage,
she lets her husband and child sleep
while she drinks deep draughts
from the delicious well of solitude,
alive to birds and insects
and small animals in the brush,
the sun just coming up
and the wind blowing over like a wave.

In the peace and joy of these walks
she creates the voice within her
to send pure and strong and true
to the last rows of the theater.
In the shadows
the coolness survives
in the hottest part
of the summer day,
when even the lizards
wriggle out of the sun.

Her voice is like the scent of roses,
intense and evanescent.
Her gestures rapidly shape the air.
Energy pulses in the red heart of pain,
the white heart of longing,
yellow for acceptance,
lavender, pink, and rose.
The roses are blooming
in great abundance.