dead broomsedge hissing
in the ridgetop wind
Category: landscape
foggy solstice
Christmas morning
Four months away
even the full moon isn’t
where I left it
Bronze Age
Migratory as an eel, unstable as molten metal wavering between stone and water, I dreamed myself adrift in a forest of the dead, one more leaf returned to the forge of life, green blade that does not crumble, however fallen, in any autumn that we know.
A road is a blankness,
a life sentence for its strip of land. But sometimes it glows, livid as a scar.
boulder field in snow
its only other crop
besides lichen
snow squall
dead milk cow
I’m that yokel
staring as vacantly as I can
at your one-way glass