In this next poem we'll take a little detour to Moab, Utah.
And we'll be right near the Colorado River,
further up along its path.
You'll also hear about the Great Conjunction,
which kind of came up in the last poem,
but where Jupiter and Saturn came right together.
December 2020.
Dear--.
Just past full dark we drive the Canyon.
The Colorado, a living darkness on our right.
Moab concealed from sight, and cliffs ahead with Jupiter
and Saturn sparkling above.
Every day growing more distant from one another.
The thumb's breadth of cobalt, infinitesimal compared
to the journey between them.
By an hour, I missed the Great Conjunction, now a week past,
walking out into the half lit street in Tucson
when they had dropped behind the neighbor's mesquites.
Nights of watching them draw closer,
and I missed that double brightness
washing dishes, or stirring a pot fragrant with onions
and spices.
Nights have not been as cold as I think they should be,
but I can't call to memory even one night a year past.
How far then, the clear desert cold of my childhood.
The water I ran in the sink or poured over lentils
came from the river we drive tonight.
Moonlight racing us on the water surface.
All my life, this river has sustained me.
These currents pulsing like veins in a wrist--
tangled, delicate, ferocious.
We drive the river highway.
The moon, a frenzied headlight at our backs,
wild to pass us-- a roar on the sandstone.
On the river bank, snow caught there, suspended in cold light,
tasting it.