Celandine light, half-
life, the prairie whistles
this drought, snowless
gazes
out of its tips.
The sky cannot
come here—no, not a wisp
but starlings
shaking out of
cottonwood.
Celandine light, half-
alive—if it weren’t
for this, for turning not
to water—
oh the prairie the mountain wait
for the sky to
come.
All afternoon the heart
drops notches
blue and then bluer.