dog and I go out round noon, October
offering a day when its golden light
stage dresses the bushes to burnish or

to burn, a handful of clouds adding
their now and then, and under the trees,
pine and olive, a flash of my ashes in

a burlap sack adding to the forest, I
think maybe hold a bit back, maybe
plant some chamisa too, the outskirts

somewhere, more of a nomad, hitch-
hiking the wind, it belongs out here, its
gilded crowns and tarnished copper stalks,

all those dusty months white like gone to
bone, slip now into glory and shine, this
day the sun has buttered out to the edges