Tuesday, December 26, 2017



Say mountains. Say winter. Say the other houses
recede into weather and the sharp edges of the forest

blur. Say thin atmosphere. Say altitude
which is the same thing as saying nearer to heaven,

a mile closer to the moon. Say whitening. Say silvering.
Say the sunset is cliché. Say the future falls slowly,

an endless layering, driven, plowed, blown into banks.
Say gut feeling. Say benison. Say we could go out searching

amid the pines and suburban houses for hours on end
and come home to find life waiting for us

on the living room couch. Say we are God’s sterling clasp,
senses crafted to hold the jeweled snow.

Denver means a breath away from breathlessness.
Say that love is not only possible but inevitable,

that it alights around us, freely given, equally shed.
Say the forecast shows things clearing 

by the week’s end. I might just believe you.

(originally appeared in Ambit)

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