My mountains are these clouds.
Treeless fields of sage
my high desert sea.
Each pry the same opening.
The gap that spreads quietly
as late August yellow,
refusing to entertain
but claiming me.
2010
My mountains are these clouds.
Treeless fields of sage
my high desert sea.
Each pry the same opening.
The gap that spreads quietly
as late August yellow,
refusing to entertain
but claiming me.
2010
I’ve really enjoyed reading your words. In fact, it kind of gives me the itch to pull out my old poem book.
Is it a book you write your own poems in? I hope so…write your life, sister.
It is. In fact, I think my first (of many) is a journal that you gave me one Christmas.