A Desert Of Aridity Poem by Nathan Coppedge

In a dry, cold type of weather,
Of the enormous Mid-West,
One must appreciate the mountains,
To do the cameleon-dance.

One must not count the cliffs,
Or drop off into sleep,
To encounter therefore false dreams,
Return to the thought of the sun.

It hardens the great waters,
That stabilize the earth,
When you're sick, it makes a difference,
With whom he wishes to live.

You are freed by mountain sickness,
To speak in tongues,
With the souls of the old city,
And you want to imagine them,

You do not beat down obstinately
With this whole sickness I have,
With the feeling of wholeness,
He will be happy.