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"At Cherokee Ridge"

  Sometimes at night

 When dust and gravel

 Sift through my brain

 I go to Cherokee Ridge

 Where the sun basks

 On women who get up close,

 Dip into pots

 And smear pictures

 On live horses,

 The colors blooming on

 The backs of horses

 The colors blooming out

 Of fingers

 In Rosie's mane

 I am in my granddaughter's hair

 Smoothing out tangles

 Minding the brushstrokes

 Flowers here are lifted

 Freed from their cases

 We set them in warm beds.

 We comb until something blossoms

 Debra Bailey--