I’ve traveled like one dandelion seed
above the grass, my home. The pasture glimmers
with its inner flames. Thin trees dismantle.
A truant bird skims overhead, migrating.

The softest fog has vanished lofty mountains.
For one old mole the dirt is its whole mansion.
Clouds warn us, passing, that all forms are fluid.
In fact, we too are clouds. We too keep melting

like signs that point to what’s intangible.
We see by sparks of darkness, shades of fire.
Nature has many paths and many faces.
The past keeps changing, but our fate is clear.

I tend my garden, read, and sip more wine,
observe the world’s wheel turning from my porch.
There’s no accounting for the foothills’ colors
that minute, burning, when the sun departs.