I meet the mountain at twilight
when the sky coats the Pinon in mauve
and the ground is freshly blistered
in two-lipped beardtongue and milkvetch
appearing as flecks of amethyst, kunzite,
quartz; I think they might be stars
but forgive me if I am mistaken.
This is the hour I belong to
when the green isn’t so green,
when even the stones soften,
and everything is as if stirred with milk,
honey and pollen—
the Earth is swallowing bull snakes
and I am at the entrance of her dream.
On my descent, I find the moths
braiding the secret air
each plume effervesces out of
and into Juniper,
I belong in the middle of their dance
stood in the silken flit
of a hundred wings
that haven’t a name for anything.