December First

Through the hills, up a gear, down a gear
past the honey morning paint on the trees
that have been there ever since I can remember.
A rodent of some type was dead, the odor
of skunk was just about right, always
at the turn by the Pintek ranch.
Smoke from a house poured out
from intention only, a fire
wasn't needed nor felt but certainly
it was seen in the cold air
which holds the wisps and twists
a sublime garland tucked into the folds
of the velvety hills. Perfect.
It was all just so perfect
but still, it isn't home yet
and it isn't where I need to be.
There must be a disasterous love waiting
or some kind of death to abide by soon.
Cold, it is so chilly in this grace
lacking grace, this heavy beauty so near.
Wood disappears into smoke disappears into memory.
This would be nice, to remember this already,
for it to have gone by, for it to be wished for
but not now, now it is a perverse embrace,
this mountain, the chill and the ash-colored air.