Black Ghosts of Ponderosa on a Silhouette of Hill
by Damien Uriah
by January’s Person
No-day now, the dark stones light with green
mosses activating, everything
has been in metamorphosis since January
when time knew me by only the gate of my walk
and called me out of darkness by name.
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
This city is beautiful in sunlight but I only want
more of her moments, that passed economy of darkness,
the smoke-filled laughter and blanketed lumen
of eyes in lowlight. January will not fall from my heart.
My shoulders chill against the north-facing moss on a tree.
In the wind I catch the scent of dead wood waking
and the swift river welcoming the birds again.
The sliver of moon is waxing and I am overcome
with all things returning alive in this light-fall.
Blessed now are the travelers of spirit,
blessed the gathering vagabonds of leaves.
Wild hair and wafting herb are blessed.
All this newness in luminescent grass
feeds on bodies, the bodies of the dead,
and now is just a shadow to speak through.