Monthly Archives: October 2011

Mud on his boots, he left
dark remembrances, tiny clods
across her worn, oriental rug

to a pile beneath the chair,
discussing business, bib
overalls agape to flesh,

feet begging to get back
in the field. I see Louie’s
been here, she’d say arriving

from a pot of soup put on to boil.
A child underfoot, I’d look up
questioning and follow her eyes—

yet never wondered why
he did not stay for the noon meal.
The old house creaked all night,

leaking bits of conversations,
a scattered trail of syllables
that begin to sound familiar.

Some men should be left alone
to nurture dirt and feed us
for neither pay nor charge.

1.
Bone worn smooth, blade shaped
by years of sharpening, shaving hair
before folding into a pocket’s retreat,

but ready. I am naked without its weight
in airports, among the broad spectrum
of humans I never see on TV—

all the unabashed and withdrawn souls
traveling, pressed into pens and trying
to get along quietly to their destinations.

Polite instead, no one talks politics!
But back on earth, we forget
once we lose our fear of flying.

2.
Cows grade the ridges now with calves
dotted close behind a storm, warm days
and green leaking through bleached dry feed,

heads down, mowing mouthfuls of both
up the hill. They have forgotten me,
grown deaf to the diesel sound of alfalfa,

not a lifted head from the frenzied
harvest grinding in their ears, bellies
tight and grass taller by the hour. We

humans would not believe such good fortune
and worry instead of when it will end,
when the worst presents itself for payment.

3.
In and out of shadow, even baby calves
can tell time, buck and run into dawn
and cry for mother in the gloaming.

No weekends off for even the old girls,
no Sabbath without cud to chew
in breezy shade, days have no names

to look forward to, just the whisper
of harbingers in the air. I, too,
cannot remember what day it is

this morning, horses still wait
in the dark for hay, and I believe
I can feel, smell rain on the way.

                                                    who must turn
                    everything to words while they, so alive
                    need so few to speak their loves.
                                    – Keith Wilson (“The Streets of San Miguel”)

Some sing, so under-joyed that the trees weep
beneath a veil of blues, a song that struggles,
wriggles to be set free as a missive to the gods

grown deaf to the old tunes. Some can whistle
in the dawn to claim the dark shade, but when
the sky slips down the mountain like a fog,

I see all the dear faces gone and search my box
of words, reaching deeply as I dare, when
holding-on to a kind thought is often enough.

                                                                in memory of Jane Nash & Old Visalia—
                                                                ‘a true friend from beginning to end.’

There seemed time—
like an endless ribbon
over hillocks stitched
with barbed wire and
split redwood, then
steel T-posts
through a sea of grass.

There seemed time
to get it all done—fix
the float, re-hang
the carried gate
and repay the favors
of neighbors and strangers—
to say the right things.

There seemed time
to visit the infirmed
waiting for sunset,
welcome the newborn
and guide the child
with love and truth—
there seemed time.

Evenings beyond fences, we run
among newborn calves, cigarette
and glass of wine listening to

our childish glee and laughter,
each buck and run unique displays
of finding legs for the future.

To the drone of local news
leaking through the screen door,
we plan tomorrow, replay

cattle strategies punctuated
by coyotes up canyons
and an answer from the dog.

We could be on the bow of a ship
watching the world pass, or
astraddle a log in a swollen river

as new mothers come to water—
never the same landscape
until the light is gone.