Tsee-Lee bpie (red chili)

I'm reading Robert Mirabal's book and I'm starting to fall into the spell. It is all about the Taos Pueblo and the tendrils of the culture outward to the world (including Town of Taos) and back. I wonder if people who do not know Taos or have been touched by Pueblo people and culture will enter the spell? No matter. The structure of the book includes poetry at the ends of some sections and the beginnings of others. Today, I was reading in the window of the World Cup, surrounded by the comings-and-goings of people all bundled up against the snow and blustery cold. Most were tourists, but some were those I know, and others visiting on school breaks and talking about people I know. I was in a cocoon facing outward toward the Plaza. Other than helping a friend finish her crossword (Clue: Gator Bowl. Answer: Moat), I fell deep into the book cuddled by the patter of people all around me. As my fingers are palsied by the chill at my desk, I am going to transcribe the poem at the end of the last section of I read today. It warmed me in the window (as it captured the cold and misty gray of these past weeks), so I'm hoping it will warm my fingers as I type it:

Tsee-Lee bpie
(red chili)

What do I know of loss?
I have not found 'me' yet.

The snow-covered mountains show assurance,

They show promise every year,
Unfolding adventures for those that will receive them.

From the Rocky Mountains, deer and elk evoke
Cold, mysterious clouds, so they can safely, in the fog,
Travel into the valleys.

Overcast sky above provides the backdrop
For the coffee-colored pueblo walls,
Misty, gloomy, smoke trails
From families that still burn the pinon wood;
Going up, straight up.
High above, the smoke travels like a snake
Coming out of its adobe home, with no wind to steal its secrets.

Only time can reinvent you,
you can never urge your angels too far without their demon partners.
Your time and your demons play a child's game of frozen tag.
With every moment that we refuse to challenge ourselves,
We freeze with no one to tag us free.

Everything that you are now,
May not be considered necessary in your future.
So what do I have to gamble with?
What in my process will I die for?
Who is my opponent? Where are the playing fields?
What do I know of loss?
What do I know of lost?

I will return quietly,
along the narrow, hoofed animal trails,
Lay claim on the misplaced valleys in question,
Stomp at the frozen, open ground,
Looking for my reward;
Knowing that gift may be Death.

What do I know of lost?
I have not found me, still.
Passing away is a good enough start.
So I will bleed on the snow;
Make myself known;
Descend into the wide open field,
Lie down; watch the steam of my breath
Silently flow, reach into the misty gray;
Mixing myself up in the questions and among the answers.

I will die; that's what I know of loss,
There I will find me yet.

This poem, for me, represents one of those moments when a writer captures exactly how you feel (even when you cannot articulate it to yourself). I had to blink back tears in the window and I shook with the effort.