BRICK

When wild oats were over my head,
we would roll like logs downhill
while they made plans to build a home
looking at Sawtooth and the Kaweahs,
Homer’s Nose and Blue Ridge, up
at the sky and down upon the river.
I had hoped it would be red brick
to keep the wolves at bay.

It has to be hard for them now to see
us sell it, empty its contents, wrestle
with memories that slow us down.

From the last ridgeline, one might
imagine they see it all with perspective,
that giving-up the Sixties is necessary
now that we are old, holding close
to the river’s edge and its eddies
as it rises. Never beyond their reach,
I’m sure they recall that I wanted brick
to keep the wolves at bay.