Last I was here
owls were crossing the day,
elm bending with the cold season.
You were brilliant walking in wind.
Talking to yourself or maybe
the leaves or maybe the Parisian spring
color of heaven you’d invented—
at your feet were
blue grasses of sky and butterfly green
clouded your eyes
and maybe this sound is you
to everything like old March rain.
Michael Dwayne Smith lives near a ghost town in the Mojave Desert with his family and rescued animals. He’s a recipient of both the Hinderaker Award for poetry and the Polonsky Prize for fiction; other nominations include Sundress Best of the Net, the storySouth Million Writers Award, and two nominations for the Pushcart Prize. His work appears in over a hundred publications, such as The Cortland Review, burntdistrict, Word Riot, WhiskeyPaper, Stone Highway Review, and others.