Jan Seale

In the High Desert

It is the yearning hour,

when gold touches the mesas.

Something there is

that may not love these buttes,

but we don’t care to know it.

Here’s a parade of the eons,

an interruption of sky,

a party of giantesses dressing:

shall their aprons be red?

Their blouses cream? Ochre?

Perhaps mauve skirts…

And where shall they place

their jewels of trees?

Posing as temples, moonscapes,

they hold the secret of fractals,

know all life below as diminutive.

They fling down striations,

god-thoughts, and silence.