the broad cottonwood,
Cinderella aspen
holds the hill
We drive here every year to see
the blanket of the southwest
gold coin and ever green with occasional
spurts of blistery red,
I wear terrible shoes
to make the hike into sky but you
press me onward from behind
prince of a companion who spies
the small hearts
raining down
matchstick girl
with tools to clear the air
for chimney and for winter
withstanding
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