a sweet offering
early July and the trees smell like matches
each cloud is a blessing of shade
and (less likely) possibly rain
today the first wild strawberries are ripe,
ruby packets of pleasure
even the smallest souls can reach –
how can such sweetness come
from sun rain rock air?
and what comparable kindness
might I possibly make
given all the energy poured into me
these 47 years?
July on the Plains
you go east
tumbling out of the mountains
just like Clear Creek
but before you hit the malty smell of Coors
turn north
skirt the tilted tablelands
where the ground ruptured
while birthing mountains
and now the prickly dark-ever-green
of forest
has given way
to the stiff serrated-yellow-green
of grass –
you don’t need
the window down
to sense the heat rising in waves
from the baking land,
you feel it inside, too –
setting things on edge
bringing you one step closer
to boiling over
