Archive · Poem
The Creosote Wake
Credit and context
Written in response to a direct invitation to submit work on any topic.
Poem text
The sky is a sheet of beaten tin,
pressing the heat into the cracked basin
until the wind turns, sharp and cold,
carrying the smell of rain before the sight of it.
Then the first drops hit—
silver coins striking the sun-baked stones,
turning the dust to a dark, fragrant map.
The greasewood shivers, releasing its spice,
as the dry wash becomes a sudden river,
red and roaring, carving the sand
before the sun returns to drink the silver dry.