I look for those men

in the mirror

of my face

Eyes the blue of faded 

winter sky

Skin of winter

earth in Rocky

Mountain highs

Hair once golden


on California’s

summer hills

Now the noncolor

of drought 

in the high desert

Lines the tributaries

of years

flowing to

or from

the heart

Skin showing time in 

islands of age spots

Not white really, never was,

but it is

like theirs

And so I am marked

as kin.

I look for those men

in the mirror

of my life

Where I ride

through aspens

Colorado blue spruce


p & j

sagebrush and 


and shadscale

and rabbitbrush

on a grulla mare

whose skin

matches no man’s color

Under sky the deep blue

of a young woman’s 


The tributaries flowing

to the River of Sorrow

which runs through me


I look for those men

in the mirror

of my heart

The loud yelling



haughty conquering

Of what?

Window glass and

wooden doors

A seat in Nancy’s chair?

So little to make a man

feel big

You’re not big,


you are small enough

to fit through a window

into someone else’s house

and that makes you proud,


In the mirror

of words on the white skin

of a page

I see no reflection

no wisdom

just my own similarity

of rage.

10 thoughts on “Reflections

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