by Jeff Burt
Evening light like molten wax
pours off western clouds
shirred by the prevailing jet stream,
capturing hands thick
and swollen from work
now raised off the table
like oars put up from rowing,
the same page turned again,
again, finger wiggling under text
and lantern flare.
Eyes search twilight,
to disappearing edges
as if an artist had taken his thumb
to a hard line of chalk and smeared.
Three does and a trailing buck
tiptoe through the campsite
traveling from one sweet nibble
to another. Blue columbine closes.
A pool of memories
gathers like fallen coins
of the aspen the wind trades away.
JEFF BURT lives in central California with his wife and works in mental health. He has work in The Watershed Review, Clerestory, Spry, and won the 2017 Cold Mountain Review Poetry Prize.
Photo: “A Walk into the Light” by Steve Corey