One of a firepit, another a grotto

A low, dim mist leaks from between hills like the Milky Way erupted

From deep below

The earth was warm and its emerald undertone became glossy beneath the ice

And ochre paint of daffodils smears with browned frost

 

The home itself is but a disorganized cabin

With its heavy vines sewn throughout pine beams

And all the world is quiet but for the morning loons and Don’s creek

 

Humid came the day and I lost sleep

The tomatoes were darker than what I need

Sporting the thickest, flannel-lined pants and sap-stained boots

With hands rougher than the gravel and with thumbs all tattooed

Sort out what can be used, what I need

What I lose

One Augusts’ lilac and gold hues in morning

The only body living there was swiftly gone

And the lullaby brush of the greenery-lush surrounding

All hush, but a song