December 31, 1999—A Nebraska Pantoum
To the east sprawls a flat, snow-clad horizon, infinity long.
Above the horizon
slate-colored clouds, thick as tallow,
extend around the sky.
Also above the horizon
a thin slice in the clouds cradles yellow-blue.
It extends half way around the sky
and is streaked with a red echo from the sinking sun.
This thin slice in the clouds
is where the moon raises her head and grows fat
by drinking streaks of the sun’s red echo,
and as the moon gathers color
she continues to fatten,
metamorphosing into red and white luminescence.
Then, having gathered enough color,
she begins to throw it around the sky.
Her red and white luminescence blends
with yellow-blue to awaken pinks, purples, oranges.
These swirl around the sky,
creating an April morning:
yellows, blues, reds, whites, pinks, purples, oranges
caught in alchemy,
and April morning transforms
December night.
Caught in alchemy,
my eyes wander, exploring the light
in this December night.
I breathe pigment.
As the light wanders, exploring my face,
it hovers before me, above me, behind me.
I taste pigment,
search for tulips.
Snow flickers before me, above me, behind me,
but I hear the returning wren’s voice
and smell morning rain on tulip petals.
I’m drunk with the spring-winter brew.
I listen to the returning wren’s voice
winding through slate-colored clouds thick as tallow.
I’m drunk with the spring-winter brew
as my eyes drift back to the flat, snow-clad horizon, infinity long.
