The sky is falling
head over heels
for a world that doesn't
bother looking up.

Weary winds seek solace
in the arms of conifer giants,
having not yet discovered that
even mountain pines shiver
when winter is at its darkest.

We lusted after opulence
and immortality
while the ravens hungered
for September to douse their dwellings
in amber and burnt sienna.

I searched for starlight beneath the waves
while sand and sky wore matching shades of indigo
and remnants of reflected galaxies
drifted across the surface in plain view,
making their way lazily
to the shore where I once stood.

February's gaze wanders ahead to
the last week of April, engraved with the
scent of lavender soap and sun-dried earth.
But, as always, these faded days
can only take him so far.
Maybe next spring.

Ursa Major yawns,
knowing winter will
grant her no rest
nor hibernation,
for sleep does not come easy
beneath the weight of
the cosmos.

The hills speak fondly of us,
of morning hazes and astral downpours,
keeping their voices low as they
trace our names in the earth, sheltered
in the shadow of the tallest peak.