Soul of The Wind

High o'er the crimson dust of Soldier’s Pass,
A gnarled sentinel of twisted wood,
It grips the stone above the withered grass,
Where many ancient spirits once have stood.

Its bark is etched by seasons harsh and dry,
A record of the gales that lash the peak;
It reaches for the burning cobalt sky,
With secrets that the canyons only speak.

It bends its spine to meet the canyon’s roar,
While roots dig deep through iron-veined ground,
It keeps the tally of the desert’s lore,
Where silent echoes are the only sound.

The earth’s worn step where desert breezes tread,
The Sole of the Wind, by the ages led.

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