Crimson clouds hang low.
The day’s embers glow softly,
burning down to dusk.
The night air’s cold hand
reaches down and pulls my breath
in shards from my chest.
Drops of falling rain,
Waiting, outstretched tongue.
Desperately seeking my
I go to freeze on dark tides
I wake before three.
for another’s riches
The past is a guide;
A companion who leads you
Into the future
Waves, softly lapping
Dappled light wanders.
Across the lush, verdant grass
the old man’s brushes with fluid movements coax life out of the canvas
A late spring snowfall Endless cottonwood tree seeds Floating through the air
The night’s slow passage A stanza in the poem Of my sleeplessness
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