Late Spring

by Charlene Langfur Issue: Fall 2015
It unravels. Two snails moving across
the sidewalk, a white cat chasing the roadrunner
on the way home, two rabbits leaping onto the
white sand from behind the purple sage,
late spring is the time of year for this, antelope
squirrels, baby quails, my dog and I moving
fast over the fading grass in the fading dark,
chasing it, what lives, we move into the light
rising, the first patches of sun from behind the
palm trees, the heat rising and the black crows
in the sycamores watching us walk fast
are like sentinels, this is how we live now,
moving early in the desert, waiting on a little
work later in the day, this is it, the exact color
of the blue sky at first rise, chasing daylight,
learning how to use less and see more, getting born,
growing older, I prefer the same walking route back
over the patch of dirt and sand tamped down,
the tipping point of a known world, the long
walking, past the yellow trumpet flowers,
flashes of purple petals at every turn, a day
in the making like no other, light rising, arid,
blue, stark, radiant as this

Charlene Langfur is a southern Californian, an organic gardener, a Syracuse University Graduate Writing Fellow and her writing has appeared in The Stone Canoe, The Hamden Sydney Poetry Review, most recently in Spoon River Poetry Anthology, The Buddhist Poetry Review, forthcoming, a series of poems in Poetry East and WeberThe Contemporary West in Fall 2015.