The bones of the trees

trunks bared by fire and years of wind and sun
shine like bones above the green brush,
radiant cream tufts of dry and faded rabbitbrush,
and luminous leaves of the wild rose now lit
with the fire of the lowering sun

between me and the horizon
hills and ridges flow in undulations
down to the valley as if down to a sea
and on the far side of that indecipherable white haze,
a blue line, the tops of mountains forty miles away

the sky glows white and rose and copper,
turquoise and deeper blues,
from rim to rim, and the half moon
floats thin and high in the darkest blue
just there among the bones of the trees

standing in the evening wind I am both small
and at home, held by season
and time, between earth and sky,
aware of breath and heartbeat, and of how
death is always standing just behind
the wild rose, the rabbitbrush, and me



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