Bumbling Through

The Citron Review

by Lisa Eve Cheby

The day is not a particularly original gifter, presents what is
always already there, little notes waiting to be noticed by a distracted lover:

one morning I hear the telegram of city birds over a rhythm
section of rubber and asphalt, and today, I open
my window on a saffron and sage watercolor of mountains.

Sometimes, maybe mid-day, the unequal bittersweet orange
climbs a parking lot wall and the evening, between the city lights,
hangs a newly incised moon in case I remember
to look or, if I venture out of the reach of hot tubs and casinos and Trader Joe’s
hours and acres bundled with juniper and calico and Mojave yucca are offered.

One day in April, a field of senna armata is left.
Then, on the day I feel most lonely, a forest of teddybear cholla.

How can I not wonder at my blessings:…

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