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New Mexico bears the burdens of its once-sleepy past--
when awakened to join the current century at last.
To give birth to the fledgling Atomic Age
It still wears the perfume of fusion and sage.

They must go to the land of fiestas, Indian bread.
Shaken from sleep to design moments of dread.
Muddy roads carried scientists, from land and sea,
to the top of a hill clothed in springtime's majesty.

Where, after a summer's welcome downpour,
bloomed lavender verbena and wild irises galore.
Where sweet-smelling sage and rain-splashed pine
competed for mistress of passions unmined.

Placed in wooden boxes they learned to call home
were unsuspecting families, the secrets unknown.
The wives joined together since numbers are safe;
their children becoming the desert's new waifs.

Some became friends with the Indian maids
who helped to restore sense to the masquerade.
They bought Indian rugs, turquoise stones for their hands;
visited their pueblos, learned about their proud lands.

Many a morning, when water wouldn't flow,
they sat in wonder and watched the town grow.
Soon there were horses to ride up mountainsides.
With friends, life was doable, they could abide.

Then finally, when the blast trembled the Earth,
they understood the conspiracy needed in fission birth.
Some called it a monster, some called it a friend.
At any rate, their journey there would soon end.

Some departed, some stayed on The Hill
still smelling the sage but recalling still.
the sound of the blast sounding thru time,
Smelling sweet pines, watching peace decline.

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