The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Judy Kronenfeld

MINDING DESERT PLACES
Winter―4 P.M.

Shadows lay themselves down
on the bare hills, darkly
soft, breast to breast.

Every tree and bush
in the wash―mesquite,
creosote, tamarisk―
is articulate
in its loneliness.

Cholla blink here,
there, guttering out.

Light slides from the warm
rock's upturned face.

You still see nothing
that is not there,
but now you sense
everything that is.


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