In the high desert, the columbine
drinks up some shade. Chromes the dark
with its risings. I spend days walking
the familiar reel of this land. Doves one shade of gray
tap about together. Rabbits long limbed lodge
in slight dew. Under sun. Beyond scarcities,
cholla hold the ungentle world
in their ungentle arms. Indian paintbrush in orange
life vests trust roadsides. I see blue sage
and sneezeweed, nipple cactus, globemallow. Prickly
pear in its khakis and between lizards fence—
found bee balm. The coneflower carefree
and gleeful. For 26 years, I have looked beyond hinges to gold—
tipped yarrow and multiplying cosmos—and because
distance sings itself loud here, I can even see lavender
in its savannah with its smoky moss eight towns off.
Squat by the gaura in a mist of pink tutus
and beside it, the claret cup with its hat full
of idling hummingbirds, and blue flax and buckwheat, and why not
watch the many lips of penstemon too
as they shout out their deep red haiku—
Everywhere, small forces. A clandestine vision.
