The sky is orange.
It is not the subtle fragrance of nakedness that implores me along the earth searching for wet, moist soil;
But the fact that I can see nothing but white for miles, and I know the earth is down there, I know the smell still exists, ever frozen.
Worms, and small rocks, tiny Pleistocene seashells in my hands.
It is summer, the sky can be grey or blue.
We can look back at Orange.
We know that when again speaks
December, it will be. Orange.
The moon will be orange, I can follow it,
slowly and quietly counting the skull beads in my pocket.
Dream of summer, dream of the winter quiet, dream of everything in-between, autumn leaves, daffodil springs.
Do not worry now, I’ve explained everything to the geese.