IN THE FIFTIES

It was colder at the Solstice
when I was a boy, my father,
like a bear before the fire

between rounds snoring,
checking temperatures,
starting the Ford flat-head

wind machines, igniting
smudge pots for oranges—
lids thrown back for flaming

helmets, a nighttime line
of soldiers on every road
guarding orchards, crystalized

stars twinkling frantically.
A black cloud stayed
all day over the Valley,

soot invaded the houses
and went to school
on the faces of children—

mother’s party dress
protected in plastic
for yet another Christmas.