Even the Sun Can’t Synthesize Gold, Which Comes from Terrible Stellar Explosions

Tumbled stones in old snow form
Their pinto pony patterns
On the slopes. The day begins,

As all of this spins smoothly
As it ever has, to face
The local furnace again,

But it’s tilted. It’s winter
Solstice, almost, one of those
Years when disasters’ just past

The horizon to the west,
Destruction over the east,
Paroxysms of human

Violence against humans,
Against swarms of living things,
Crushing cities and species

At accelerating rates.
It’s quiet, mostly quiet
Here in the tourist canyons

For now, but the cold belies
The coming sun that, for now,
Just brushes the slopes with gold.