A blaze of gold
more than red
in early evening light,
you strode slow through snow-
dusted new grass skirting
a low hill behind the house.
Then black ears pointed up, you sensed
my presence on the porch
and turned your sleek head, sharp nose,
toward me quick-
flashing black bead eyes.
How you lit up
the dull afternoon
with your confidence
and in that moment gave me
a grim hint of your intent
before you trod soundless
to the forest edge
where the lesser creatures live.
what more do I have
to fear or desire?
Listen to Beth Paulson read this poem:
At day’s end along the dusty path
I saw them, pale-pink votives glowing
in the gravelly stone
on the brown bank
up from the clamoring river.
They were evening primroses
sprung from gray-green, leathery leaves
unfolding their silken petals, opening up
to bright stamen centers.
They were the only blooming in that dark place.
I believe there are people like that, too,
who cling to what’s in this world
such as the poor person who offers
the stranger bread or a song.
Beth Paulson's poems have appeared widely in small magazines, and her work was nominated for 2007 and 2009 Pushcart Prizes. A new book, Wild Raspberries, is forthcoming from Plain View Press in Spring 2009. Beth lives on Colorado's Western Slope, where she teaches writing workshops and climbs mountains.