Dawn does not wash over the earth
sinking into limpid lavender pools
and dripping yellow butter,
the yolk of her light warm and rich in the azure sky
bearing rosy sunshine as a gentle promise.
Dawn does not peek over the horizon
as a child might peek at a hidden present.
Dawn does not embrace the earth
as a cherished friend after a long absence.
Continue reading “Daybreaker”
Peeking through my window at 32k feet,
the Earth is a majestic carpet
of pale sages and burnt siennas.
Drapes and folds pile together
into towering mounds of rock and ice
or recede into valleys and endless plains
on which I leave no shadow.
Glaciers crest ridges
and cascade into creeks and rivers
that carve the canyon below.
From here, the lakes are pristine
fonts of life in the wilderness.
Continue reading “A Fragile View”
Dark plum colored tumbleweeds
drift across the deep navy of predawn light.
Feathers of light yellow brush the sky.
A majestic buck, his antlers a pale crown in the nascent light,
advances past the yuccas,
each adorned by a cascade of creamy plumage. Continue reading “Aurora at Big Bend”
I hunt men the way a lioness stalks a gazelle
after months of meager meals eaten alone.
I pounce feebly and land in the grey dust
as the gazelle leaps nimbly away
and gazes at me with startled liquid eyes.
The gazelle knows I am too weak to chase,
and so with a flip of the tail it grazes idly nearby.
I do not forget the gazelle or our dance.
Continue reading “Like a Sponge”
Actaeon’s folly was not his errant sense of time and space,
stumbling upon sun-ripened blackberries
that stained in carmine streaks
and meandering amid the oak groves,
oblivious to the lengthening shadows
stretching like a yawn upon the earth. Continue reading “Actaeon’s Folly”
The barren hills drift by the car window
as I stare at the bleak grey of the sunless sky.
My husband follows the rise and swell of the road’s contours.
I think of all the would-be children
I could have had, before now,
before this man beside me,
the scraped knees, slobbery kisses,
the parade of mothers’ days with too runny yolks,
falsely bright and staining the toast
like a broken promise.
My children that never were.
Continue reading “Thanksgiving”