Steven Goldsberry

Colors in Idaho

In October old Michael died, 
out of grace and three weeks gone before
we found him, stark white 
in that black oak bed of his. 

Workings

An old Indian lives in the lemon orchard. 
His age bewilders the thorns, 
his body is rich as brasswork. 
He will kill you many times before 

A Trapper Dreams of Silver Deer

The ridge is crusted with blue snow. 
Evening descends, learning its way 
to the river, the slow deep core of winter. 

A Study of Oranges

It might never happen, I say. 

The wind might rise 
on the lake and then every 
image would be broken, 
scattered into itself.