Monthly Archives: March 2012

Looking away from the fire:

                    irons at rest among coals
                    in a pocket fallen forward
                    from limb wood licked,
                    consumed by colored veils
                    of dancing flames
                    between calves, hoots
                    and loops, stretched,
                    rolled and released—
                    we see they find their way
                    without us, despite us,
                    mothers waiting at the gate.

Near hawks atop leafless oaks
watch as if we weren’t here, bored
with the horse and human intrusion,
from the lifeless trucks and trailers
claiming space for the moment,
shadowing ground and grass—
scattered like discarded toys.

Knotted trunk, creek bank sycamore,
has lost several centuries of limbs
and seen more in its own failed reach,
enduring droughts and floods,
than in our short stretch of time.

This pattern we can’t ignore—this
constant readjustment of elements
that tests the best of human natures.

It is the rural way, the hands-on explanation
of work, of time invested or squandered
in pursuit of peace for a fleeting moment—
if only an adieu to the bone-weary gloaming

                      as she pulls her covers up,
                      as the dogs make their circle
                      of scent posts, and as the cows
                      call their calves together

to welcome darkness. A separate species
of farm and range, of fence and tree row,
of the harvest, track and furrow following
each season of the sun for the life of the soil,

for our time on this earth, we speak
the universal sign of gestures and looks,
in secret code that unlocks local sayings,
the un-riddled truisms that begin and end

the legends that muddled here before us,
and found their way to offer progeny:
an ever-changing strain of human beings
that listens for the hymns of the old ways.

This is our church, our adaptable Divinity
that transcends all things to expose grace
to a slowing metronome plodding home—
a prolonged rapture towards the end of days.

Early March, and she toys with us—
checks-in to make sure we wait
patiently, perhaps even pray

for her attention as she stampedes
across town, destruction in her wake.
We are helpless only to watch,

rooted to this ground ignored,
but for light kisses, promises
blown on her way out the door.

We know her well, intimately—
sustaining every dream and more,
believing in her fickle fidelity,

her wild extremes we have endured
for lifetimes. Yet, we begin again
to learn our place in this relationship.

The Spotted Towhees find last year’s leaves
to stir and kick around with the kind of blind
intensity of natives, as if they’ve always lived

here scratching beneath the outdoor chairs—
moved-in as if they owned this place before us
and whatever other square inch they may occupy,

yet so briefly that no one objects, not even
the cats, having their sneak and leap already
fixed and gauged as clumsy and rudimentary.

Even the sleepy dog tilts his head towards
these busy interlopers. How could we ignore
these squatters, these colorful immigrants?

OregonLive.com
                                           courtesy of Rene Eisenbart, The Oregonian

On days like these, light gray
promises hang on the horizon
along the Coast Range waiting

to be invited, shy rains late
and hesitant, empty-handed,
yet we race to get the delicate

inside and under roof, just
in case, glancing up at the sky.
We have forgotten how to dance

the dark storms in, to drum-up
rolling thunder to fill the creeks
with sheets of rain. We measure

normal with a straight edge instead—
level all the crags and peaks,
all the gaps and secret passes

to a flat and steady grade
to forecast our chances, to gauge
our bounties and disasters with

a number that always deviates
from the average for this moment—
the only science we understand.