by bg Thurston
After an hour of down dog
and forward fold, we drive
the narrow road home, sun
sinking in a molten sky
where strips of clouds stretch
and wrap around the horizon.
You wonder about squirrels
digging acorns under road salt.
I wonder whether poetry
will ever come back to me.
After the barn chores, feeding
the crew of cats and dogs
I sit waiting, a zazen of hope,
legs crossed and mind open
watching each breath rise
then fall back into the world
which is dark now, but I hear
the muses, quiet, then question
their single syllable that calls
out into the still and cold night.
Smoky Quartz 