Unclouded haze hangs heavy
Over those who have never seen hungry bears
Picking neon summer kokanee
From the glass of glacier streams.
No blankets wait in deep closets to be retrieved
By kindly hands of grandmothers,
Or quiet morning lovers,
Or my lonely father,
For shivering sleepers.
No small hands under small blankets sit,
Nor white breaths against dark afternoon skies.
Here is a different warmth:
The kind that comes from liminal promises
To coniferous homelands.
My Name Is Con 