Sprigs for sunrise,
sprigs for Taos, and soldiers
on the steep blue sea.
The slopes of Taos,
true south, building, firing
to the aspen smoulder-golden—
sage for the cello in its breeze.
Sprigs for small things
rousted, on the run, Septembered.
Flocks of longspurs slipping down
the continent by night. Sage for them,
moving through the mesh
of the dangerous starlight.
Copyright © Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.