At last, when the winds came,
the pottery lay broken upon
stone. Branches snapped
in syncopation. Waterfowl
scurried for cover. The sun dozed.
Your dress billowed like a robe
of minuscule shells, casting back
the glower of clouds. On the heel
of your hand, I read the calligraphy
of time. Veins pulsed, incognito.
Aphorisms of love spilled beneath
our feet. Turn right, turn left, turn
inward toward the light, only to sully
the forms of seeing, only to sigh for
respites from respiration. Lungs deflate.
The dog lunged toward us, laughing
at the lightness of being. The will wilts
into smoke, vapors spill into sky, sky
swirls into sand, sand fills hourglasses
like rain. In shadow, moments vanish.
Fires growl on the hills, scorched in acres
of sorrow. How the weak wither in the conqueror’s
gaze. How fine the seeds of contemplation,
how vast the canvas of colors that bleed
to the edge of desire. Eyes shutter in gloom.
I mourn the loss of your reckless dance, snaking
toward the crater. Embers shimmer like gems,
steam drenches strands of your hair, flames lick
the side of your face. Death delivers no clarity. Dreams
conjure grace. Winds lasso days. Pots reassemble.