I flew here when the Wall fell.
Fourteen with feta on my tongue, rose oil in my fist.
To this place that prays for rain but is half covered in snow.
Daughter of a refugee and refugee herself.
This is a healing place, they told me.
They raised me on the SCERA stage, picking cherries at the welfare farm.
We hiked the milky splash of Bridal Veil and drove the Alpine Loop.
The valley was the palm of God, the mountains were his fingers and thumb.
I nursed babies in the Stadium of Fire, under a shower of ash like pixie dust.
We are all running, they said, under this endless sea of summer sky,
across the knuckles of giants holding up the wild aspen.