I am as invisible as the
passion of the piñon's
short fingers trying to catch
the wind. The waiting of the
settling snow while space fills
empty hands without protest.
Can you see me sway?
The sky is glacial and heavy
as the time it has taken to be
found blue.  The sun screws
into my eyes like a memory,
those pressed flowers persistent
between panes of glass sliding
away until I look again. I always
look again. The pine cones are base-8,
a clever lock against catastrophe.
In the bed under the boughs I imagine
your hands looking for the small
stones of the future.  I imagine you
finding at least one.

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