Foraging

of curl’d clouds

Burned
by sunlight,
oppressive in its

monarchic gaze. 
I seek the names
of berries

my grandmother taught
on dew-strewn mornings
of a spectral youth. 

Her dog,
bright and golden,
running the length of the brambles -

its energy 
another teacher,
unnoticed outside memory. 

Here in the dry lands,
where rains are absorbed
by terracotta and

stubborn ornamentation,
the names grate against
ghosts half-formed

by the fleeting mist. 
In the absence of clarity,
I will lay out candles

and light them 
as a pathway
through the shadows that fall.