Midnight Flame

At midnight, he can’t see

             the white picket fence

                          or the tomato stalks, shriveled,

in the garden, though

             he knows the patio,

                          strewn with willow leaves,

plumes of tall grasses,

             upright and still;

                          and, as he peers into the yard,

he senses a moment

             wicking into flame — 

                          walking up an arroyo,

they gaze back

             across the Pojoaque valley,

                          spot the glinting tin roofs,

cottonwoods leafing

             along the curves of the river — 

                          a green tide

surges in their arteries

             as well as the trees;

                          tonight, spring infuses fall,

and memory’s wick

             draws the liquefied

                          wax of experience up into flame.