Arizona, this is for you.
I could never do her justice, so long as she was able to justify me. And I never knew beauty 'til my eyes landed a desert sunset-- how she paints her cool colors across the warm sky. And I'd take the 10 to Ahwatukee, cut down across the Res and all the turquoise selling vendors. Sometimes I'd get scared on this foreign land and then I'd remember its all foreign to me anyway. But the 10 goes home both ways: across state lines to Arizona and back into southern California. In Arizona, its new. The white lines are fresh and the signs are crisp. In California, tire treads sleep heavy into the asphalt and almost every sign is graffitied. In Arizona, the 10 lies along maroon plateaus and vivacious succulents. In California, along other highways and freeways and streets and more things made from man and his heavy material. But the closer I move to California, the closer I find myself to Arizona:
There is something calming,
something insightful in this sultry desert.
She inspires, she connects, she heeds allure.
I can close my eyes and feel her warmth on my skin,
can hear her rocky soil crunch beneath my shoes,
and I welcome her dry air to rest on my skin.
I can close my eyes and hear, "Perseverance. Woman. You are. You are Woman. You can persevere." I can open my eyes again and see the tops of roofs, the city on a grid, and automobiles as ants. I am at the top of a mountain now.
My words can never do Arizona justice, so long as she's been able to justify me.