the color of the sangre de cristo mountains at sunset

red clay between my fingers on the wheel

georgia o'keeffe, not the flowers, the bones

green chile from hatch, roasted in september

the kiln at 2300 degrees, the moment i open it

canyon road galleries on a tuesday when no one's there

my abuela's molcajete, worn smooth by fifty years of salsa

turquoise, real turquoise, from cerrillos

a wabi-sabi bowl with an honest crack

sopaipillas with honey at tomasita's

the drive from santa fe to taos along the high road

agnes martin's paintings, the grids, the quiet

mole from scratch, my mother's recipe, which takes two days

adobe walls that are three hundred years old

buena vista social club, the album

the idea that imperfection is where the beauty lives

thunderstorms over the mesa in july

a glaze that does something i didn't expect