unfurl

stir onions until they snap and yellow; caramelize.
there in a kitchen. bodies of rice grains swelling.
look for a way into a life without longing.
until petals of plastic bags no longer fall from the sky.

then leave home in the dark,
drive into the mountains silhouetted black against blue.
past east canyon, lamb’s canyon.
alpenglow in the rearview.
reach parley’s summit, the white sky.

along 224, a field of clouds–a milk lake.
between a baby, a dog,  asleep in the sun. small dolphin noises.
aspens shadow across a face, wind in the chimney.

the gray bustle of the heart replaced by wide blue skies. not like the way the baby’s eyes
fall shut half heartedly–but wholly.