Wednesday, December 27, 2017


A million mighty flocks of snow
flakes swoop, sink, circle, soar,
all feathery, small and slow,
piling into a potter’s porcelain floor.

Up the landscape, in copper pelt cape,
she turns, black-footed fox in flight,
and she turns a sweeping escape
into a fluttering burst of rusted light.

You pull me by the arm and so we run
toward that boney orange arrow.
Oh how the wild paints and stuns!
Abandons! My eyes burn with color.

I want to drop the rope that holds you to me.
I want to drop the rope that cages you
to me and away from your history.
I want to watch you blur into the blue.

You would follow her gold fur
far and wide and into the wild, or
you would chase her until you were
red with her: this your ancient sister.