At sunset, on the eve of fall

An opening -
yarrow, juniper, tiny spiders
with fire on their winged
bellies, the pines

in Florida never cease to make
me look higher
than my current hope

for the ones I love
to reach beyond

their prickled wounds

Every step further-

my acquaintance
with once foreign sounds
grows familiar
palm fronds swing,

fiddlers creak in and out
of their holes, unseen
insects tease--

like always,
I walk to the edge
of where my feet can go
and as the sun stretches
down over the marsh,
old wounds grow faint

and I remember it all

here, in the
flattest of landscapes

the purple rising
behind every crevice
of the Wasatch mountains
the golden streams
which once struck
into a darkening sky

and I held my Uncle's hand
we watched the temple glow
the cold wind pushed
through the yellow grass below

flat and silent
the way it was goodbye