And then Absence

The grass has gone dry.
It will be that way,
sharp and light,
the earth crumbling beneath,
for a very long time.

Sleeping three in a narrow room
at night we were suffocated
until I opened the windows
to the cold air.

Pausing, my hand pressed
against the bright, smoky glass
I thought the morning had come.

But outside I saw the night
with lights from the mountains.

When the dawn finally came,
its embers rising over the ridges
giving birth to fire,
those other lights went away.

Now the heat is enough
to burn my scalp
as I sit in the sun
and sharp, dry grass
becoming stiff.

But there is a transience
to this heat in the mountains;
intensity, and then absence.


words: Anne Cammon, New York (more)
picture: Jeff Crouch, Texas (more)


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