Snowstorm last night drifted north
and left an atmosphere of
cotton clouds against the blue
This world seems rounder way up here
Red cliffs in ribbons with spangled light
A remnant cool on my skin with
dampness in the mold
are helping me to breathe again
How sick do we become before the deadwood
is consumed
and bluebells and bumblebees return
I need this purging of the sky, I want my lungs
to hold it in, this mountain air
Nepenthe in a fallen grove
So weary and so old
so close to heaven
in my bones
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