poetry

buying cold

buying cold

she tells me doubtfully
it’s pretty dark
it’s back in the trees
that area holds onto snow

I grin

she suggests a different place
now this place over here –
this one’s sunny and bright
dry (but windy)
it melts out a lot earlier

I explain patiently
we’re looking for a little refrigerator
where we can escape the Plains
cold and wet is what we want

a place where all the PurpleAir disks glow green
where snow is measured in feet
where water sits right below the surface
ready to douse a spark

where the aspen are plump with sap
and the spring’s gushing never slows
a place to counter glare and ash and salmon skies
numb to the mercury’s fever

poetry

at the lake

at the lake

people bake
in this scene out of Kansas
or Nebraska

ski counterclockwise
the sign reminds
so the boats corkscrew around
this finite refreshment

it’s Saturday
and one after another
the pickups back to ramp
deposit the underclad bodies
perched on beached boats
set them floating toward Sunday
loud music and beer buoying them along
while an uncertain dog
paces the deck
and a gaping fish head
rots on the shore

poetry

July on the Plains

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