Niches Carved. Handholds.

Today I barely pick up my slipper feet but amble outside.
My cupped hands suggest holler clear across to ridge

where cars on the farthest ribbon float like toys or tin angels.

A fence runs its length in front of me, pocked with afterthoughts —

niches carved in the wall.
Four separate fist indents. I ache for treasure.

A locket to bear a tender face.

Above my lazy vacation sightline, hunchback mountain
shadowing me since girlhood

with pastels so somber, any licked thumb

could smudge. As if pools of wilting golden leaves,
an ache in the ancient divets. One dog howls

and then, a country rooster, satisfied. Here where
Saturday is but half started, a metal fleur de lis leans against dry muddy.

Land swoops up from mid-horizon and one house pins down
the crest of creosote wave. I imagine
shelf contents in the wall where there are none —

Burnt paper, romantic

secrets. Slipping film strips.

But, empty spaces hush. Ruddy no man’s land reminds me of digging
in dirt. Handfuls. What would I choose to prop up —
Chipped Madonna statuette with her head

forever bent.

Acorns for a squirrel.

I attempt to lift my eyes as

sun shuns and melancholy down sifts

low at the soft kneel of foothills. Storm sinks.

Clouds interrupt.

I hear companions’ footfalls through the house alongside.

Inside, a challenging staircase. Others I adore are elsewhere.

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