At midnight, he can't see
the white picket fence
or the tomato stalks, shriveled,

in the garden, though
he knows the patio,
strewn with willow leaves,

plumes of tall grasses,
upright and still;
and, as he peers into the yard,

he senses a moment
wicking into flame — 
walking up an arroyo,

they gaze back
across the Pojoaque valley,
spot the glinting tin roofs,

cottonwoods leafing
along the curves of the river — 
a green tide

surges in their arteries
as well as the trees;
tonight, spring infuses fall,

and memory's wick
draws the liquefied
wax of experience up into flame.