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:…
View original post 114 more words