Pollen
For weeks it was our weather,
Clouding the air for days,
A fine bright storm that billowed
Over barns and feedlots,
Making all the livestock shine,
The horses one color.
And like luck I wanted it to last,
To have it there each morning
When I milked, the stalls
And stanchions shining,
The udders all dust with light.
Afterward
Afterward everything hung in perfect balance. Light and
dark, heaven and hell. We weighed our words carefully and
never went outside. We just wandered the house, one desolate
room after another, afraid anything we'd say, even the
slightest comment, would bring the day crashing to the
floor. And so finally we settled on no words at all, and lost
ourselves in little things — watering the plants, straightening
the books on the bookshelves — both of us wondering how
long it could last. It was like some great scale, so fragile, so
delicately calibrated, even the dust was a factor, could tip
the day one way or another.
Whiteout
Here on this ridge
The only color
Left is you,
And soon you too will fade.
The spruce have long
Returned to birch,
and the birch
Are quietly
Turning to snow.
—————————————
Robert Hedin
At the Great Door of Morning
Copper Canyon, 2017
