The Only Source of Light

If I had not stepped outside
of the darkened house tonight,
I would have missed the ripple
of Jupiter behind low clouds,
and the musk of burned cedar
collecting in the eaves.  I would not
have noticed the small flame flickering
inside of my own bedroom window,
softening the walls
with an almost unbearable
sweetness.

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The Artist Listens to Lila Downs

Her brush tangos
easy on stretched canvas

in rhythmic reds,
sultry oranges

to Acolba Azul.
In the blue bedroom,

Spanish blooms
inside her body,

strikes up
a conversation,

longs for
a word to describe

the glimmer
(flame?)

that is spreading out
from the darkest 

alcove
of the room.