Where I First Was Happy
The twilight was never silver, but the trees were Russian olives.
I was the only thing that bloomed there.
Grandma’s petunias back by the house were really white,
And the pair of white horses never lay down.
The rest was grey: barns and fence posts
In matching dust, fine and smooth as refined flour.
Stirred up it could hang and fade like fog.
Now I feel like dust dispersed in air,
Settling over hours, days, taking the shape
Of what it touches, to move through high desert
On Grandad’s defunct F-150. I will the wind
To make me a haze so I redden the sunset,
Then let me settle to merge with the mountains
That savor the cold and understand
Their faint pain as they wear away.
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