Fog... ice-puffs and fake snow.
You are a sage-desert guest,
no in-focus overview
or midnight hot cocoa.
Your rustic-yellow farmhouse,
from a quarter century ago,
is little more than dream-graphite.
The Wolfhound puppy carries
her own sunlight, steals cheeseburgers,
is not bubbly-for-poetry... not yet, no.
The puppy and you... mosaic figures
a-stumble between fence line
juniper and poplar: the frozen
ground is ghost-ice slick...
with heaven invisible.