Night after

a full moon.

The air is cold

like dusk

in the mountains of Mexico.

Sunny, then cold.

A long, serpentine hiss

the stove at summer's end

bubbling kettle


hastening downstream

so gently

the gods nearly ceased

their labors in the stones.

On my desk, one lily

releases a haphazard splash

petals and yellow pollen

on the wood

while another

curves its rigid spines outward

reveals a wickedly pink

and spotted interior,

prepares itself

to bloom

just once.



words: Anne Cammon, NewYork (bio)
photo: Dorothee Lang, Germany (blueprint21)

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