Walking Segre. December.
Told-you-so versions of
anthocyanin + my own guesswork
make demands I’m willing to meet
somewhere around halfway online.
Colors of winter weedpatch tangle
are in there somewhere, vying with
rivercurrents, a light breeze,
enough
sunshine staining the canvas that
won’t work but has to be tried.
In memory (aided by photos) eye
struggles along the coat phrase of
earths, red wines, some whites even,
the swirl of branches stared at
from the rocky unpaved pathway.
