Just when I think yellow won’t happen again,
the water gets still enough to hold the sun.
I am reckless enough to believe the world
welcomes me. Just when I think lavender
is over, the meadow wakes up, the butterfly
appears, the sun sets once again. I never
meant to want too much from love, but
the claws of tulips raged through our garden,
and I knew to run west, where horse apples
punctuate the trails and prickly pear asterisks
the edges—a warning not to stray.
I wish that ghost ranch meant something
besides abandoned because what is more
faithful than a ghost? I’d prefer to think
of the dead grazing on starshine and dew,
residents of a night kingdom tending to bats
and moths and somnambulant hikers lost
on the mountain. And I can go be among
the herd of them, a grief tourist, learning
about the linger before the after life begins.
And just when I think it’s over, that indigo
won’t happen again, the morning glories open.
When I think our love was snow—a beauty
with no destiny, I receive frozen sunflowers,
still bright in death. And just when I think
the day sky is the most profound blue I know,
I remember the way your ghost glowed when
the moonlight fell through it.
2025