Windflower

The daffodils stare at each other.
Their yellow thread stitch
climbs through the fields–
tumbles along the freeway–
bright light borders dancing
along grassy patchworks and concrete walks.

Utah Home

A friend of mine recently asked me when I would stop calling Utah home. The answer is never. That could be the end of this little essay. Short and bittersweet. But there’s so much more to say. 

Twelve years in California, and I still daydream about my Utah home. I always will.

It is difficult to mark time with rain. One season seeps into another. Green, then golden, then green again. 

I remember summer nights that never cool down. The hills on fire with sunlit, autumn-touched quakies. The quiet, curving turns in dry powder. The smell of desert-born storms racing and washing over the Wasatch. 

And always, my family. 

Sabbath

Out West:
A Great Horned Owl with eyes like lightning.
A spring overflowing in the sagebrush.
A field full of meadowlarks and mice.
A fallen farmhouse with red brick bare.
A Brahma tearing the earth with his horns.