My ancestors fled persecution

and followed with a faith greater

than I can imagine.

They joined other Saints

pushing and pulling to a mountain

valley of saltwater and sage.

But before the unforgotten

reached their Promised Land,

many froze in early snows;

they all wept at graves,

they all prayed.

My comforts spill

about me—careless and consuming.

I labor to remember

that I journey too.

Winters Quarters, by Luis Pino; do not copy