Stones and Rainbows

Needles of Lodgepole fasten
sheets of charcoal clouds
to the ridgeline of the narrow
canyon between Butte and Helena.

An outburst of hail ricochets off asphalt
and spatters the windshield, slows
our snake along I-15 north and fills
the truck with banging of riotous cymbals.

Caliginous light blurs spring grass
a dusky jade silk as we round a corner
and clouds brush back to watercolor
refracted rays across pine valleys.

where wild cranberries grow

Through a veiled grove
of golden leaves quaking
on an autumn whisper,

there is a valley where clear
springs spill over a rim
of granite into a pooled

reflection of shivering
moon, where wild blueberry
and fireweed flame a scarlet

edge for evergreens, and night
lights weave the tarp of stars
with jade and rose auroras.

Here, the step of Mother Earth
is a pliant tumble of tundra.

Sunday Inspirations

It’s 5 a.m. and I’m awake
listening to your breath come
in deep-dream swells, the wind
singing in the chimes outside,

and the muffled rumble of metal wheels
pulled along iron tracks punctuated
by the caution-cry of crossing.

I shift and you stir enough to curl
your fingers over the curve of my shoulder
and my thoughts drift to an image

of your hands curled around ski poles,
the smooth shift and glide of your legs
propelling thin skis, the solid silhouette
of your body against the stark snow,

and the way you smile just before we kiss.
How you stopped to listen to birds
chattering in willows along Pebble Creek
and said you prefer comfortable quiet, too.

Today we'll ski in a cathedral of cottonwoods
you'll show me where hawks swooped down
with outstretched wings and left
feathered angels in the snow.

to define missing

You fill the idle minutes
and margins of calendar days
crowded with city traffic,
meetings, and company clatter.

Images of the tracks we left
in melting snow and juniper
pressed against mountain
mahogany fill the space
between lines of marketing copy
and attachments waiting for production.

No matter the direction my day spins,
you are north in the compass of drifting
thoughts, the trembling exhalation
of breath I pull deeply into me
when the air of your absence
condenses into a pressing mist.

McGown Peak

At midday she smolders
terra cotta, a red saw blade
rising from Stanley Lake,
a ragged granite boundary.

Even in August
when meadows bloom
purple Penstemon
and ginger Castilleja,

snow clings
to the deep gullies
and the Finger of Fate
is solid, enduring
and cold.

Capella Street, Star

My next house will be in the country,
not against some crowded suburb
sidewalk where all the roads are named
for what shines in our galaxy.

I hear angry voices down dark streets
and I want to shut more doors, more
windows, more ears. On heated nights
when the past comes muffled
through my pane,

I ache for the flutter
of air in aspen green.

Dreams in Half-Light

In the space between twilight
and deep sleep, leaves flutter
against the ripstop roof
and sweet wild rose slips
in the zippered door;
draws us out to the night.

A silver scar traces the face
of the dusky mountain;
slices through a beard
of sage and juniper
littered with cockle burrs
that tangle in our laces
and cling to our hem
as we clutch for a foothold
in the sliding shale.

We summit on a silhouette
of limestone lip haloed
in chalk moon and watch
owls traverse the tattered ridge.