“Driving Home,” New Era, Mar. 2001, 51
The sky is white as clay with no sun.
All is dusty gray.
like porcelain, the scene could crack.
I sit cold in my car.
The drive is serene.
Soon a lazy sun peaks around
the west mountain,
dripping honey into Utah Lake.
My eyes glory in the juxtaposition
until distance leaves it a
smoldering glow above the horizon,
like the tip of a match
when first blown out.
At dusk, a translucent mauve
dusts the chalk-painted valley.
Gray smoke from quaint chimneys
blends with the settling fog.
All is calm.
All is bright.
Still and content.