may i never be too old
to sit upon the ground
before a tall and hungry fire
built from gold
trees my only witness
sky my only hold
and the river running miles
through the crackled mud between us
singing hard and true and cold
. . .
the red sun
hovers close
asking why
as if answers
could be crows
crossing distance
in shorn-shortest
feather breeze
paths
when in fact
it’s the meadow
breathing wisdom:
bloom
in the midst
of flamboyant
underused chaos
bloom
like a rose
in a sky
filled with fish
bloom
and surrender
to the hot holy blood
filling each eye
bloom
and forget
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