The old granite forgets half a year’s filth…
– Robinson Jeffers (“November Surf”)
The sweep of leaves, the track erased,
first winter storm – spring’s discarded
petals, summer’s seed, and September’s
discontent raked into the earth await
Pacific passion from whence we’ve come—
to rely upon—it pumps in arteries.
Even the old veins swell with anticipation,
dry flesh craving streams, runoff flushed
in rivulets, old slate clean again—the only
promise that may bear fruit despite the lies
of men. Her scent upon wind gusts,
we prepare and pray for rare extremes—
all the damp furies inhaled, the sweet
smell of storm, and after-rain of molding
green—to renew our vows and begin again.
drycrikjournal 