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The Mesa Wind Blows Soft

by Arthur Owen Peterson

The Mesa wind blows soft tonight,
The western stars bend low,
Self-shadowed in the firelight
Old dreams, old visions go.

The mesa wind's a soft caress,
Cool fingers in my hair;
Soft whispers out of lonliness
That breath a lonely prayer...

O mesa wind go far to her
With kisses carried high,
And tell her mountain grasses stir
And 'wait her passing by;

Go tell her that the mesa trail
Lies yellow in the sun,
And clouds, like dreams, ride white and frail—
Lost longings, one by one.

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