Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and when he dies
                        only the five senses that we know perish with him,
                        and the other ninety-five remain alive.

                              – Anton Chekhov (“The Cherry Orchard”)

The past walks here, all the dead
horses and livestock men grazing
a hundred and fifty springs—

all the promises and passion spilled
upon this wild mat of grass and flowers,
naked lovers idly pinching petals

along the creek for centuries
within the mottled shade
these same trees have cast, yet see

to keep alive. We have had
our moments here, left ourselves
so wholly that we rise and rest

among them, add our song
to the canyon, our cries to the sky
to forever make our home.


8 responses to “HOMEMAKING

  1. Your words are absolutely beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Peter Notehelfer

    Hand and Land meld so sensitively in your poem as in your photograph. Excellent work . . .

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Simply, destined for the book.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Nerves ending of shallow earth, memories filled open spaces reaching to be heard, from the root to the sun. But you among so very few, can read their voice.

    Liked by 1 person

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