tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-217608132024-03-13T21:51:21.150-07:00The Dragonfly TreeLaurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-44571302404170654372023-04-11T07:54:00.001-07:002024-01-07T13:07:19.666-08:00Reverie<div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Rising day wraps aspen in mist</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">drifting off the hot spring </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">pooled in a circle of rocks.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Pine and sage perfume the dawning; </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">follow where I have journeyed </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">to the water's edge </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">disturbing a pair of carrion.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Earth is forgiving beneath bare feet</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">here in the fold of grounded fog,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">so I sit, hands cupped in my lap</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">like an empty boat between my thighs</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">and contemplate crows. </span></div>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-45981262880810059912022-10-18T14:07:00.001-07:002022-10-18T14:07:38.705-07:00Washing the wall<div><br></div><div>This morning</div><div>I finally washed that wall</div><div>The one in the bedroom</div><div>He smashed his drink against.</div><div><br></div><div>I wiped out the streaks</div><div>The tear stains in the gray.</div><div>I am not sure why it took so long.</div><div><br></div><div>Perhaps I needed the reminder?</div><div><br></div><div>But a year is long enough </div><div>To watch my wall weep.</div><div><br></div><div>Laurel</div><div>Oct. 17, 2022</div>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-60127868346460433642022-10-09T15:05:00.001-07:002022-10-18T14:06:58.459-07:00sage caves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Ah...this desert...she is easy to admire from afar, but to truly love her, you have to risk a walk with her roughness, learn to navigate around the edges of her eruptions. You will need to drop into her darkness, lose yourself amongst her ice altars and befriend her demons. You will be required to emerge from her brooding disquiet and still find her beautiful.</div>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-91237016196944189412022-10-04T13:40:00.000-07:002022-10-04T13:40:40.190-07:00Cliff Lake<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43xydoNW6uZwXhlullRE-F56m7GgclCF9wgiOscB7A5oE6dYV9PBm7EoCP7phcySPHCHEw8Z0H4yUYu7p665nQjJY-y8SHw7BSoHz2HfjIfeMPQxQCmxqL9jYbtQDtsJSF17JZ1Mdcn5Kh0encWo9oGhat9hkBvQ74PpYYCb2j0N3QohGXA/s2048/clifflake.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="600" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43xydoNW6uZwXhlullRE-F56m7GgclCF9wgiOscB7A5oE6dYV9PBm7EoCP7phcySPHCHEw8Z0H4yUYu7p665nQjJY-y8SHw7BSoHz2HfjIfeMPQxQCmxqL9jYbtQDtsJSF17JZ1Mdcn5Kh0encWo9oGhat9hkBvQ74PpYYCb2j0N3QohGXA/s600/clifflake.jpg"/></a></div><br><br><br>Morning is a trio of blue herons flying low above the emerald pools, their rattling cries echoing high in the rocky cliffs. Two bald eagles perch high in a pine across the lake, exchanging low, throaty greetings and chattery calls. A lone bat scoops one last gnat off the placid face of the water as dragonflies rise to take on the chase among the tall grasses and lakeside willows. A pair of green darners tangle in the air above my head, whirring furiously, their wings click and their bodies lock as they spin earthward. My red prijon stretches lazily at the waters edge, her stern nosing gently into the lake while her bow firmly grasps the land. And a cup of coffee from the jet boil warms my hands as the sun saunters into the sky dressed in apricot and violet.Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-88757569003230449612022-10-04T08:24:00.001-07:002022-10-04T08:28:58.616-07:00Rewarming
Take my hands<br>
if you can bear the chill<br>
for I have tucked them <br>
tightly in crossed arms<br>
but still my body shivers<br>
<br>
read my palm, the line<br>
that refused to rise,<br>
and tell me if you see<br>
what I already know<br>
<br>
my heart line is the constant<br>
master of my head line<br>
my life line is splintered<br>
frayed across my palm<br>
<br>
draw your finger through<br>
the furrows, where the fragrance<br>
of forget-me-not still lingers,<br>
warm peaches and mandarin<br>
that leaves a bitter bite<br>
<br>
chart a course around each callous<br>
like a brand new journey<br>
on a worn out map and leave<br>
a trail of silver pennies<br>
a shining path on moonless night<br>
<br>
whisper encouragement<br>
like kisses on my fingertips<br>
until the blood rush <br>
gives them warmth<br>
<br>
and when I can bear them<br>
when the bite of frost<br>
has at last released<br>
Take my hands<br>
<br>
Laurel<br>Sept. 14, 2022 <br><br>
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I make my way to the hot spring and immerse myself in the healing waters. <br>Overhead, Taurus shines bright in the still black sky, standing guard between Orion’s notched arrow and the daughters of Atlas. <br>Mars has shifted and now rests above the tip of the bow, a burning ember eye watching the brilliant constellations.<br><br>
Leaning against the rocks edging the water, I wait. <br> I watch them fade as rising day flannels the sky behind me with soft grays and pinks.<br> I wait, and I listen as bubbles rise from the hot spring source, a constant, soft-sizzle as they break the surface tension in the stillness… <br>irrepressible effervescence.
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Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-5070179953166598342022-07-06T13:09:00.000-07:002022-07-06T13:09:07.620-07:00flame skimmer<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59aqvWJImrdpAEQDnJDSwQZi-eFzXw0Cbxz8fU-SHz1TBAWmkip1Xv6QZ1fMEipls00R4-cMjhGmY9ZIdeUJxDoozANXbMy0pQMhdLjXX28Hu0c480_QOFwxKZ4r7Hl7AqmyLUZKAcKceuDA5HeiUZ2NEFXcAdsENttdOvifDF1lLQn8KVg/s1920/flameskimmer-poem.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="600" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59aqvWJImrdpAEQDnJDSwQZi-eFzXw0Cbxz8fU-SHz1TBAWmkip1Xv6QZ1fMEipls00R4-cMjhGmY9ZIdeUJxDoozANXbMy0pQMhdLjXX28Hu0c480_QOFwxKZ4r7Hl7AqmyLUZKAcKceuDA5HeiUZ2NEFXcAdsENttdOvifDF1lLQn8KVg/s600/flameskimmer-poem.jpg"/></a></div>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-76025353272676622802016-09-06T09:23:00.005-07:002021-09-11T14:50:36.366-07:00Storm over Grand Junction<div >
</div>
<div >
</div>
<div >
I cannot find it in me to relinquish that weekend: The sun setting my arrival in Grand Junction, the virga gray over Grand Mesa lit by drifting rays, and the splinter of light slicing a bit of rainbow.</div>
<div >
</div>
<div >
It is beyond me to forsake the desert; all her reds and golds bowled by Books, and Monuments, and Grand Mesa... how does one abandon Grand Mesa? Where evergreens and volcanic rock skirt a hundred lakes and aspen groves applaud the wind that conducts afternoon lightning shows, thunder echoed in their clap.</div>
<div >
Where Saturday night, when the tent was pitched next to a single, white columbine, the rain came, and we escaped the downpour by sitting in the cab of your Ranger sipping Knob Creek and interrupting the chatter of rain, then hail, then rain punctuated by booming expiations. And then afterward, when the fire was blazing down to cooking coals, we filled time drunk and tented away.</div>
<div >
</div>
<div >
How does one obliterate this beauty? I cannot omit the Sunday night storm approaching from the east as the sun set behind us in the west. The wonder of sitting in the Colorado National Monument under a shelter overlooking Book Cliffs; watching rainbows rise from the valley where Independence stands red and resolute in the dusk of day. The lightning cutting caliginous curtains and swells of thunder rolling up the valley to wash over us in undulating repercussions. <br class="kix-line-break" /></div>
<div >
If I could define this missing, if I could write it out, perhaps he would understand storm-spilled tears and forgive the fingers that still reach to touch cascades of rain and reserve the surge of cloudbursts. Perchance he could comprehend why my upturned face still seeks the kiss that mists rainbows across my lips. But I cannot put the chill of Colorado summer rain against his skin or impress upon him the icy drops that soaked your hair and trickled through your beard. He cannot hold the weight of Colorado rain in the cup of his hands. </div>
Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-82073862501474296682014-09-09T16:23:00.003-07:002014-09-09T16:24:32.189-07:00Seeking after that sweet golden clime*<br />
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Nothing fills the chasm of your absence </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">like the crest of a wind swept summit</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">the arm of summer warm on my shoulders</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">and the craggy echo of September sun</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">reflected in the face of a placid lake</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">*with a nod to William Blake</span></span></span><br />
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Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-88671386345753475982014-06-27T14:04:00.004-07:002014-06-27T14:04:32.007-07:00she brings me dragonflies (for Aysia)with wide eyes, wonder-full<br />and outstretched arms <br /><br />she comes to me<br /><br /><i>I have a gift for you<br />something I found</i><br /><br />delicate hands lift <br />the jarred amber insect <br /> <br />vellum wings gravely <br />drawn under its body <br /><br />perfectly stillLaurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-81830648450585697662014-05-14T16:33:00.001-07:002022-10-04T19:44:16.540-07:00Poet’s Lament <div>what courage, to sacrifice essence</div><div>on the altar of misconception</div><div>to those who may not know</div><div>enough to plunge the knife</div><div><br></div><div>when I lie on these stones</div><div>when darkness draws </div><div>me into his arms </div><div>I do not mind the quiet</div>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-46384456966822774042014-05-08T15:01:00.000-07:002014-05-08T15:01:03.825-07:00*Seeking after that sweet golden clime<i><b><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">nothing fills the chasm of your absence like a wind swept summit and the arm of summer across my shoulders</span></span></b></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">*with a nod to William Blake </span></span></span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-82626457075666237952014-04-04T06:26:00.006-07:002014-04-04T06:38:16.976-07:00Grand Junction July 20 - 22, 2007<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I cannot find it in me to write a poem about that weekend: The sun setting my arrival in Grand Junction, the virga gray over Grand Mesa lit by drifting rays, and the splinter of light slicing a bit of rainbow.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is beyond me to compose the desert; all her reds and golds bowled by Books, and Monuments, and Grand Mesa. How does one define Grand Mesa? Evergreens and volcanic rock skirt a hundred lakes and aspen groves applaud the wind that conducts afternoon lightning shows, thunder echoed in their clap.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How Saturday night, when the tent was pitched next to a single, white columbine, the rain came cold, and we escaped the downpour by sitting in the cab of the truck sipping Knob Creek and talking through the chatter of rain, then hail, then rain punctuated by booming expiation. And how afterward, when the fire was blazing down to cooking coals, we filled time drunk and zipped away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How does one compose this beautiful? I cannot give you a Sunday night storm approaching from the east as the sun sets behind us in the west. The awe of sitting in the Colorado National Monument, under a shelter overlooking Book Cliffs, watching rainbows rise from the valley where Independence Monument stands red and resolute in the dusk of day. The lightning cutting caliginous curtains while swells of thunder roll up the valley and wash over us. I cannot put the chill of Colorado summer rain against your skin or impress upon you the icy drops that soak your hair and trickle down your face.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If I could write it, perhaps you would understand the storm-spilled tears and perchance forgive the heart that could not come back.</span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-3705143249778777422013-04-05T13:40:00.001-07:002015-10-29T11:55:19.187-07:00The Hard FallOctober weight settles on maples <br />
in thick wet mounds that bend <br />
branches until they rip <br />
away from limbs. <br />
<br />
Power lines bow and bounce<br />
beneath white as it slips <br />
off in long, crashing dashes<br />
and a citywide blackout <br />
brings traffic to a freeze.<br />
<br />
I’ve pushed the bed<br />
against the window <br />
and lie pillowed in the frame <br />
watching early snow <br />
frock my backyard. <br />
<br />
As beautiful as it comes,<br />
I know this kind of falling <br />
soaks through carefully worn <br />
layers and leaves a bitter chill.Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-47981014927109458062007-09-29T12:50:00.000-07:002007-09-29T12:51:40.406-07:00Misplaced Mountain LaurelI don’t think I should be here <br />among the star gazers and velvet <br />tongued empresses, I am awkward <br /><br />petals and stiff limbs, my leaves <br />do not fade and fall, I am never reborn <br />nor do I return to earth to poke <br />my way into warmth. Snow settles <br /><br />on my evergreen sleep, wind rattles <br />through branches that do not bare. <br />Yet every summer, when the sun <br />moves away, pink and white<br /><br />blossoms remind me I am<br />more than just a shrub.Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-69369140339481817592007-08-28T10:16:00.001-07:002007-08-29T15:01:35.599-07:00The stars are getting highKetchum smoke hangs <br />fog-like, ghosts the limestone <br />cliffs and mountain mahogany <br />of Pass Creek Canyon. <br /><br />I’ve scrambled up to peek <br />in the small mouth of a cave <br />above camp and hiked <br />among pines to taste afternoon <br />warmth. In the tent, kids <br />cocoon in hard-play sleep <br />and blue nylon bags. <br /><br />Firelight licks the Merlot <br />in my plastic cup as the haze<br />lifts and I see Orion’s belt <br />span a dark delta. The air <br />is clearing as if zodiacs are<br />inhaling the burning grass.Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-56665133937133329132007-07-11T12:09:00.000-07:002007-07-11T12:10:00.029-07:00Summer Solstice<span style="font-family:verdana;">It’s 4 a.m. and sunlit<br />grass bobs in the breeze,<br />tall and summer heavy<br />where we sprawl,<br />almost touching.<br /><br />A masked waxwing darts<br />through quaking aspen,<br />chirping as he flits away<br />on crimson-dipped flight.<br /><br />Cicada tymbals chatter,<br />and our laughter<br />gurgles spring-like<br />as your gaze reflects<br />the opulent caramel<br />of Tiger’s Eye.<br /><br />And though I am afraid<br />of waking, I lean<br />across to kiss you.</span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-55661987242590925092007-06-21T14:16:00.000-07:002007-06-21T14:42:19.823-07:00closing the miles between<span style="font-family:verdana;color:#ffffff;">I can’t look at mountains<br />without wanting you<br />trekking ahead of me,<br /><br />leading me to summits<br />I would not explore alone,<br />taking me to a world<br />where only you and I<br /><br />see the vastness of time<br />rise to touch eternity<br />as history spreads<br />in peaks and valleys.<br /><br />Western clouds gather<br />to rumble and spill.<br />How many thunderstorms<br />will resound through my pane<br /><br />with flashes of light<br />and tremulous echoes<br />before my heart stops<br />waiting for you? </span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-90350878210231307212007-06-01T10:48:00.000-07:002007-06-01T10:50:08.508-07:00Petticoat Peak<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">A wooden frame stands<br />on her rocky top<br />time-gray and warped.<br />Rusted penny nails hold<br />cracked boards carved<br />with names and years<br />as far away as 1919.<br /><br />To the east, Salt River’s<br />snowy peaks are prairie points<br />binding ground blocks;<br />fresh plowed brown<br />and new-growth green<br />quilted by pivots and roads.<br /><br />Below us, a dust devil<br />curls a dirty column<br />from exposed soil,<br />winds into oblivion<br />on a grass border.<br /><br />Westward, mountain tops<br />fan across Earth's palm<br />like a hand of cards<br />dealt for play and cool<br />breezes venture fragrant<br />offerings of sage across<br />the windswept ridges<br />of Fish Creek Range. </span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-67226561276193581552007-05-17T14:39:00.000-07:002007-05-17T14:47:40.898-07:00Stones and RainbowsNeedles of Lodgepole fasten <br />sheets of charcoal clouds<br />to the ridgeline of the narrow <br />canyon between Butte and Helena.<br /><br />An outburst of hail ricochets off asphalt <br />and spatters the windshield, slows<br />our snake along I-15 north and fills <br />the truck with banging of riotous cymbals.<br /><br />Caliginous light blurs spring grass <br />a dusky jade silk as we round a corner<br />and clouds brush back to watercolor <br />refracted rays across pine valleys.Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-72228168807200139982007-05-03T13:19:00.000-07:002007-05-03T13:22:19.029-07:00where wild cranberries grow<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Through a veiled grove<br />of golden leaves quaking<br />on an autumn whisper,<br /><br />there is a valley where clear<br />springs spill over a rim<br />of granite into a pooled<br /><br />reflection of shivering<br />moon, where wild blueberry<br />and fireweed flame a scarlet<br /><br />edge for evergreens, and night<br />lights weave the tarp of stars<br />with jade and rose auroras.<br /><br />Here, the step of Mother Earth<br />is a pliant tumble of tundra. </span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-84548961091316110922007-05-02T13:34:00.000-07:002007-05-02T15:32:25.546-07:00Sunday InspirationsIt’s 5 a.m. and I’m awake <br />listening to your breath come <br />in deep-dream swells, the wind <br />singing in the chimes outside, <br /><br />and the muffled rumble of metal wheels <br />pulled along iron tracks punctuated <br />by the caution-cry of crossing. <br /><br />I shift and you stir enough to curl <br />your fingers over the curve of my shoulder <br />and my thoughts drift to an image <br /><br />of your hands curled around ski poles, <br />the smooth shift and glide of your legs <br />propelling thin skis, the solid silhouette <br />of your body against the stark snow, <br /><br />and the way you smile just before we kiss. <br />How you stopped to listen to birds <br />chattering in willows along Pebble Creek <br />and said you prefer comfortable quiet, too. <br /><br />Today we'll ski in a cathedral of cottonwoods <br />you'll show me where hawks swooped down <br />with outstretched wings and left <br />feathered angels in the snow.Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-90740548436083208842007-05-02T13:19:00.000-07:002007-05-02T13:24:02.366-07:00to define missing<span style="font-family:georgia;">You fill the idle minutes<br />and margins of calendar days<br />crowded with city traffic,<br />meetings, and company clatter.<br /><br />Images of the tracks we left<br />in melting snow and juniper<br />pressed against mountain<br />mahogany fill the space<br />between lines of marketing copy<br />and attachments waiting for production.<br /><br />No matter the direction my day spins,<br />you are north in the compass of drifting<br />thoughts, the trembling exhalation<br />of breath I pull deeply into me<br />when the air of your absence<br />condenses into a pressing mist. </span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-57124482979542228772007-05-02T12:45:00.000-07:002014-04-04T06:41:17.664-07:00McGown Peak<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 18px;">At midday she smolders<br />terra cotta, a red saw blade<br />rising from Stanley Lake,<br />a ragged granite boundary.<br /><br />Even in August<br />when meadows bloom<br />purple Penstemon<br />and ginger Castilleja,<br /><br />snow clings<br />to the deep gullies<br />and the Finger of Fate<br />is solid, enduring<br />and cold. </span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21760813.post-48715096018587790922007-05-02T12:41:00.000-07:002007-05-02T12:42:33.803-07:00Capella Street, Star<span style="font-family:arial;">My next house will be in the country,<br />not against some crowded suburb<br />sidewalk where all the roads are named<br />for what shines in our galaxy.<br /><br />I hear angry voices down dark streets<br />and I want to shut more doors, more </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">windows, more ears. On heated nights<br />when the past comes muffled<br />through my pane,<br /><br />I ache for the flutter<br />of air in aspen green.</span>Laurelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668582278287036793noreply@blogger.com0