Gonna be another long day, I sigh, thinking 
of errands and chores that can’t wait. 
I overslept and feel out of sorts. 

Would you rather have a short day? the mountain asks. 
Framed in the sliding glass door, its slope is etched 
in frost, and even from a distance, I can see 

almost every single tree. No, of course not, I answer. 
Then be careful what you wish for. Be grateful. 
The light is getting shorter every day. 

Easy for you to say, I think. You don’t have to do 
a blasted thing but stand there for another 
480 million years with no worries

no obligations, nothing. It’s one of those stay-
out-of-my-dang-business Mondays. 
I start the coffee. 
                        

I was writing a poem about fog when suddenly,
I looked up from my notebook and the sky was on fire. 

Grabbing my phone, I hurried outside to catch it. 
If you wait—even for one breath—it’s too late.

Darkness descends so quickly. 

I took three photographs—one of the smoke-gray 
mountain with plume of pink clouds rising  

like an exclamation mark, one of blazing skies on the ridge, 
and one of tiger-striped clouds behind a December oak. 

Hold onto the world’s burning beauty.

Seize the light that (like love) flees so soon
you wonder, Did he feel what he said he felt? 

Shivering, I went back inside. Tonight it will snow. 
Then, before you know it, it will melt.