clouds purl away over the hills,
pretending to be a river.
for months it has been like this--
lanky adolescent sumacs
lifting their arms to a puritan sky
that keeps withholding rain.
at the end of each day, crows piece together
the black map of night on which
the road of no return is shorter than
the right road, but still longer than life.

somewhere you have lost your truths,
even as you fought lies. what does
your heart gather for you now? do you
ever wonder why love drives free souls
and then abandons them? not lack of words,
but lack of love gives birth to
clouds, ones obstructing light
but without life-giving rains.

dusk crawls up the hillside.
i imagine that i see your shadow
like the dark earth torn from the river bend,
or a jagged rock wrenched from the mountain.
just as night rubs its feet, a deer mouse runs
across the parched grass. the sky drains
to a distant eddy. goodnight, i say
to no one there.

the moon streams in ribbons
of white.  down here, on this map of night,
there is no sign of the brief moment
when the heart is darkened
by the pause of seasons.

i pray for the gift of light under the black umbrella,
and for the hidden angels to guide you