From Nomad Poems: We Are Seed.
We are seed. Or maybe arrow, target, punctuation,
density to hold. We are our favorite drinking cup,
sometimes filled, sometimes emptied of our resonance,
duende, fight. We are also elegant and ornamental lack,
erased when trees of oranges or bright autumn skies
pass clear on through. Even more invisible when winter
sinks so low the hills resemble horses who have lost the race,
heads bent down to drink in green and disillusioned grass.
I love their lesson: how to suffer failure without shame.
Hills, horses, none remember lining up at starting line.
Joined with Earth on lockdown, hunkered down to work.