As I slept, we lost an hour
and I woke this morning knowing
that loss is the soft underbelly
of love, that we can roll it over
to pry out the sweetest parts
but can never pick it clean
from the hollow bones of grief.
I seek solace in the land,
gather mountains in my arms while
geese float through the thin morning.
The sun fails to properly rise.
Birds still called as if the world
weren't breaking at the seams.
A river running coyote,
gray-white in the iced air,
passes close but doesn’t look my way,
just steps like majesty through the silent Sunday.
I do not truly belong to this desert place
but the river always welcomes me
like a cherished guest.