December 17

We slept in a graveyard of trees,
a cradle of fire, formerly,

and the outermost edge
of the Southwest desert.

The sun slipped away
all afternoon as the wind

picked up across the further
steppes, traced mesas

with their new dusting
of snow–

So we slept early
and shallowly, as dreams

of deer passed through
camp towards the ice-clotted

spring further on.
Crystalline life,

all that I could need,
or want, breath

or heart, here inside
this ice-crusted tent–

A home is where
you are, no more,

I see it now
but had to go out

so far, the furthest
I’ve been, the hardest

edge, the deepest sky,
the slew of secret stars,

the sun spilling over
red rock to bring the dawn,

stirring bones to life,
all gifts, all rewards,

all greetings that say
welcome,

welcome,
now, farther–