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.
I’ve ordered the paper for a new chapbook I hope to put together on rainy days before Elko, instead of the larger collection with a working title of BEST OF THE DRY YEARS, that I just wasn’t happy enough with to complete, needing yet the more normal perspective of some rain.
This poem and photo have appeared here previously, but not on the same page. HOMEMAKING is the title, this photo on the cover (as of this morning). I truly love formatting these chapbooks, rereading and editing some good poems in this one for the past two days.