The ache is gone
like a cutthroat bleeding out
crimson sandstone Moab
cliffs; the gray sky has
lifted. Chasing my tail
for thirty odd years, the wound
is scarring over.
Now what?
Some days I wait for the fox
to steal from the green and
take my cat, an ache
to pick apart
like a starving vulture.
Other days I watch
the ladybugs lose themselves
in the wind.
In every direction, the world erupts
alive, phenomenal, on fire.
I don't know how to not wait
for the storms.
