DRY CRIK Journal

Hint of smoke from northern fires
holds a pink glow upcanyon, dawn late
upon dark ridges near trimmed in white

ribbons rising – lifting the purple cloak
of night into another Sabbath morn.
Without sound, it could be Day One.

You may not ever see it so, or feel
as forgiven – relieved of the complexities
coiled like barbed wire of abandoned fences,

old strands rusting years in the grass.
With your short clock, third day nosed
upon my daughter’s breast – you feel it now

waking in and out of shapeless dreams
you’ll paint yourself in time – in times
where space alone may not be enough

to let the day dawn upon you –
or let the gloaming ride into starlight
with all the endless universes beckoning.