The Broken Spears

...of bitterbrush,
and sleeping sage
receive much more
than icy silver.
When the clouds and sky
resolve their flying issues,
rusty shadows
of shabby paint,
or a drab olive coating,
barely there,
wishing for more color,
politely, as gifts
of the sun's humors
should, they murmur
a low song of gratitude,
tough humility.

Don't lie to me, my darling;
stay close.
This is our winter, yet
hold out hope of fine days.
These gnarled branches
are full of poems