Western History & Genealogy Blog
Celebrate Poetry Month
Implausible, that naked night, I still am not quite sure of what we used for words for being there.
I seem to think you were saying something about a madonna dark with candle smoke and wasn't I trying to tell you how to tell the white death-camas from false asphodel?
No matter, my invention year by year contrives new overtures and afterways to that far passion.
Here alone in this hot afternoon I almost touch but do not touch these tortured torques and splines of desert lava worn by slow abrasions of old old winds that blow and blow forever.
I close my eyes, I hear our wooded river. I see our first new moon.