Most of the time,
Most of my life I look west
Instinctively
On this axis where home sits, my
Gaze is due west.
The gift of ephemera, as nothing
Interrupts yearning
At first I needed to go,
Home,
And I did
Those long and precious years
And now,
I’m just not sure
But the comfort is this difficult
Horizon.
I follow
Old Sun from an eastern sky
Painted by the still mirrors of the lakes,
Wintering faint, ghostblues, grey chill of pink, but still
Sunset.
Winter.
Presently now
I find I’ve been watching more
I watch the sun
In this newly-seasoned skying to
That prairie.
The snow for now is gone,
And as I wait for the loam,
The sky blooms gold as it lopes west.
Covert
March 11
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