Early Autumn

No words for
the colors on
this fiery hillside,

inexplicable,
so that I do not
move to take

even one
photograph,
but rather hold

each muscle
still to breathe
deep the delicate

scent of evening
as elegance carves
its name into the

part of my brain
that stores such
things, which must

be near the place
for love, because
I think of you then

and the way we
write our names
on the body

of one another,
the taste of living
on our lips,

as all the words
dissolve
into colors.

Advertisements

Trail of Yes

We are blue trail
treading on berries
of juniper, fractured

branch, bleeding sap,
anointed air. We are red
bud cactus flower explosion

between stinging needles,
and golden lichen on
the gnarled stump. We are rattle

of raven behind white clouds
and whiter still, we are sun-bleached
deer bone signature

of the lion’s night prowl
that makes hairs stand
on their ends. We are footprint

echoes on wet, black earth,
wind from beneath the precipice
and a changing sky before

the rain. And we are
porch swing, screen door open
chord guitar music,

first star strumming
half moon rise, and we are yes,
and yes, we sing,

for the many bright and broken
colors, yes, we sing,
there is living to be done.