Closing In

The wild closes in

the moment the sun

idles in its profusion

of mauves and reds.

With the blush of air,

I harbor blue to slow

the progress of time

that thickens roots

and deepens the char

of lost afternoons.

I trip over the orange

that tricks the moon

to appear a too-soon

omen of blurred visions

to come, tongue lolling

in heat-fed sleep. Dark

carries its own night

dreams. How I see

the sea become a field

of frost-licked snow,

sky the arms holding it

back from my mouth

athirst in fear. I mean

to find my own way out.

Maureen E. Doallas