Leaving Santa Fe

Driving north, the season’s
slow fade goes unnoticed at first,
but when a colder wind
brings tears back to our eyes,
how blurry it appears,
until finally, approaching dusk,
spring turns transparent
and its ghost leaves us shivering.

There is no gentle pink
that lingers at sunset, just dark
proclaiming dominance.
Without a draping of green lace,
the bare trees simply
seem forlorn milestone sticks.
When dawn does return,
winter’s shade fails to budge.

Mile after mile, as we
drive on, everything regresses,
the landscape reveals
not one sign of a tentative bud.
A gritty crust of snow
now encases yesterday’s scents.
How shrunken we look,
shapeless again in bulky jackets.

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