Aroma at Sunset


By Sara Aranda

Aroma at Sunset

I lean into the wind
become a silhouette
in this orange waning sky.
It never settles,
just follows
a subtle, foaming taste of dirt.

Somewhere someone is failing
to look outside
climb the mountains
touch the streams
love wildly
hope for death
as a dream
beneath the boughs of a pine tree.

On the horizon
the iris of the sun
blinds me to an Earth
of endless trail.
My fingers touch
what the sun
will never know –
like an aroma at sunset,
these mountain flowers
granite domes
sinewy clouds, kissing
moss-laced soil as they pass.


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