DRY CRIK Journal

One can awake in the same place
for the first time, each breath full
of an errant rain on old dirt drying

rushes senses through the silence,
stirring every canyon of the mind.
There is no one – nothing else

for moments – and you are alone
tasting, inhaling fresh-filtered light.
The hills could be brass castings

cracked with dark oak seams
beneath gray skies, soft at the surface
to a separate urgency, insulating

another world above gone mad,
gone wild. Old and young at once,
you see – watch the ship lift-off

and leave you to begin again
embracing possibilities you try
to cultivate throughout the day.

Pretty fresh, subject to online editing.