is personal on so many levels -- color, energy, transformation. Personally, I think of steam rising from cooking beets. Yes, both golden and red. Also, should you ask, I know of no other literary form more than the haiku which imbeds so much anticipation.
And the ghosts come howling across the plains as I leave her house, full of questions. Driving through the cactus haunts, one of the mother rages across the road, one of the father skims the rising heat, the ancestors pour across the pavement, a confusion of commands. "We are burning, burning like the slim dry sticks." Hollow air fills the evening, a version of the time you shared. Along the highway all the moving, all the questions.
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