There is a slight slant to the landscape. 

Chalky old lava flows stuck to a shape 

Remnants of a past…angled. 

Once, this earth changed its appearance 

Into patterns we wouldn’t recognize. 

 
The bridge is out, lower in the canyon 

Where the Klickitat turns towards Adams.  

I and everything wait for the rain 

The parched flowers and grasses 

Their fragile skin and stalks, browns, and beiges 

Bloomed easily last spring, without effort. 

 
Along the dryness, scattered tree limbs 

So light, they remind me of bones 

Whitened and greyed by summer. 

I imagine them becoming new forms 

A collage of life, blood, and image 

Their uneven surface, knees, elbows, & heart 

 
A scattering. 

 
(“Once, I believed your hands were so soft, 

I thought they were made of petals.”) 

 
I pass a row of old houses 

Where the highway bends between bluffs. 

Thier lawns littered with sticks & twigs. 

I can barely see the yellow line of the road 

It having faded through all weather. 

 
I feel a sprinkle. It passes quickly.