The orangey-sick color
is tanging my senses,
I feel I am in some
parallel world, censored
by a sun gone mad.

My skin is dappled
with licks of flame,
fueled by a rising firestorm.

Mount Graham! Sky island rare…
is pluming its burning agony
and smothering my sight.

There is such beauty
in perspective, such doubt
in difference. White lilies fair
cannot shine with purity,
in ignominy, they bow to alien air.

The orangey-sick color
is scented with tang,
and distress,
killing a sky island rare.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 7/3/04