And now in November my southern exposure

Reveals nothing more than the vast expanse

Of shallow distance, nothing risen into it nor

Anything in the bare oaks and maples to hold it,

No sun but the reflection of a day-moon nimbus.

And from a dark closet I take Georgia O'Keeffe's

Yellow Cactus Flowers and hang it back on its

Winter wall where all the fierce light of Abiquiu

Begins to shimmer, white petal-tips tinged sky

Blue, the brilliant bursts of bright sun-yellow

Streaks reaching out into the deep desert heat.

All day long I can hear them opening, opening.