Early yet in an early spring,
growing patches, orange-gold,
claim open slopes like flames,
Fiddleneck between gray skeletons
of Blue Oaks pushing bud,
feathery translucent leaves
where the gods walk ridges,
wave hands to paint,
adding color to hillside green
we’ve not seen tall in years.
Out of dust and naked dirt,
new mosaics, lush with moments,
openings for everything put off
in drouth—real work we absorb,
take our sweet time to recognize.
True paradise! I love it!! I think I must have been Californian in a previous life.
I’m sure, Joe, but don’t be deceived, it’s still dry. I rode in the dust of happy cows, bucking and running with their calves, last week–but beats the hell out of ice and snow.
that rain god sure is somethin’!
…but a bit tardy and currently absent.
Beautiful ! very inviting to go there and sit inside this field
Thanks, Herman, it makes you feel smaller than the photograph allows.
Oaks making a comeback. I prey this is current and that it last well into August. (we can dream) The poem…perfect! Another for the book.
I want to live in your head a few days!
I think the oaks are faring better than I thought last fall, a hibernation thing, maybe. Living in my head can be treacherous ground alive with metaphors looking for work, another way of seeing things that’s not always pretty, but clear.
Makes one wonder how you can get any ranch work done with all that bouncing around in there 🙂 We are indeed fortunate that some manages to escape to the page.