By Kelly Grace Thomas


Sometimes among the rocky mountain cold,

the way the still deep blue of a lake stares back at you-

silence can be a curse or calling.

The elegance of tecenda wrapped around the measure of time

Like breath on your neck.

I count pebble like buttons, looking for metaphors to fasten meaning.

Barefoot, toes numb on the gravel.

The time ghost of words has been baptized in a forgotten faith.