Fifty Something Woman on Canyon Road

It’s a curse, your shock
of white hair at the crown,
the length of your experience,
penstamen poise, eye explosion.
I’m a gonner

and we’ve just begun,
commenting over coffee
about punk lavender, what
our generation chose,
or didn’t. I was shy then.

This morning I want you
in that moment of rousing, warm
cupping, moaning together.
It’ll take half a day
on the high road, the other half

coming home. Exploring
every curve is a slow turn;
mossy seeps an altar
for wildflowers, breathless
destruction. We’ll rise

through afternoon storms,
break into the churches
of small towns and ring, and ring,
and ring, the mountains
melting around us.