Our current home is divided
Between deserts and mountains
On one side real winters and springs
On the other hot endless summers
Except how the pines up north
Are the direct descendants
Of our waving southern palms
I haven't figured out yet
How something gets to be
Where it makes the most
Of the weather around it
On the shoulders of boulders
And the weaving sands
Where the mountains stand firm and alone
And the deserts fold their hands
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