cold wind on last year’s fruits – polanisia

boulders, granites, feldspars, pinks

grus

is there wind on the waxing moon

solar winds and lunar flares as the comet shares a green tale

the setting sun drained the grama grass of the loan of red

fading into straw

the buckwheat still mirroring crimson

long ago received

from the same source

the miracle of shifting light into dark

here

in the broad palm of the valley

contains a silence

innocent to distant bombs

tyre calls

the seemingly distant terror

memphis

ukraine

meets my body with the immediacy of the winter wind

cooling so quickly

following

part of the dusk

the crunch of black grama

the curl of blue

the anthropomorphic accusation of hairy

showing its middle finger

there’s silence in transition

the silent imperceptible movement of time

as the sun sets into february dawning

birds and cured tarragon

canyon wren in winter

unexpected call of summer

blossoms in the silent approach of night

cold fingers hold this pen

brilliant moon

more brilliant in the sun’s retreat

copper-bronze hops tree

lycurus phleoides

lanterns of physalis

light the evening

the sting of winter in cold fingers

mixes

with last calls, this day

of curve-billed thrasher

and the crunch of feet

on granite grus

shadows in moonlight

borrowed from the sun

is not all light borrowed

piñon and junipers

still offering shade

into the night

no cooler than the moonlit

grasses shade has different qualities at night

lust calls into question the truth of love

the quality diminished

the whole world hangs

between tragedy and justice

neither displays

the fullness of life

adjustments as the owl calls rocks

casting shadows

toward the sun

orion never says anything

but the rumors

something about brigid

jupiter and mars

the skunk’s scent

evokes memory

awakens presence

city lights

distant engines

distant bombs

distant funeral

tasting the tears of a mother

from the safety of the mountains

tender and cold

memory

a dream

[-and-]

Maya drew my attention to a coyote early this morning.

bristling winter fur

uncanny moving

life shines through reds and greys and blacks each hair

illuminated from within self-brilliant

shimmering coyote

calling forth the dawn