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Flesh, flesh flashes.
Very, very cranberry.
Straw-colored grasses,
and red-twigged osier.
Dark brown cattails:
arsenic and old lace.
Red wine Amaranth,
ancient Queen Anne’s Lace.
Pine green.
Spruce green.
Fir green.
Gold feather-grasses die
’gainst a pink-streaked sky.
Willows hold yellow-gold leaves;
orange Caragana heaves
silver slivers of
blanching branches
into the slate grey sky.
Flurries of falling leaves
leave flurries of snow...
good-bye!
Brown creek clearly dances
over grayling and mica flecks.
Blue snow shelf advances
under hoar-frost diamond specks.
Mother moose, big as bison,
introduces, “This is my son.”
Black back, chocolate side,
grey limed limbs, hide.
Calf’s calves flailing splayed hooves,
windmills clatter slippery grooves,
between opposing, racing cars.
Wild look, over the shoulder.
Wild leap, over the shoulder.
It takes a long time to stop running.
Warm pink mother-tongue waits in welcome.
Motorist missed.
Baby is kissed.
Autumn colors in the far north,
driving by,
blissed.
©2008, Ruth Hill
(This poem was first published in The Litchfield Review, Fall 2008.)
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