I have been green. I recall.
withall of my purpose burgeoning
in Blythe ponds of uncommon joy.
my yurts are open to closed snow
but nothing gathers at my feet
so much as the fumes of verdant dreams
polishing the banisters of our compass
with all the fervor of a slave-
to freedom… but having no moon
to conjure with
I have no sun
to barter.