The dormant trees have dressed
in winter’s morning snow. Trunk to tip
they stand washed in crystal water
remembering the firey face above the clouds.
Today’s clouds sit in the sky, scoops of ice cream
on glass tables. On a tiny mountain top
we let our feast rest warm in our bellies, watch
our kids run wild
through the prairie grass. The trees’ journey toward
winter deepens, leaves like flames flare along the
horizon, flash out of the dense green skyline.
Our season, shifting
within this sphere of space and time, we measure
love in actions; we count our growth rings on the
circumferences of memories. We are
stories, closed curves combined.