With wild imagination, the sky
speaks in colors and contortions
before storms settle in the mountains,
as gray clouds scout a trail to camp,
a granite peak to rest upon,
run aground, snow and rain.
Three score years plus
of looking up—and away,
daydreaming fleeting poetry
even as a child out the window
of a forced nap—another tongue
with no letters in its language,
only colors and shapes
from every perspective,
no two the same.
No frost, morning warm—
flotilla of round clouds,
a raft of ships scouting
for a dark fleet, big guns
on the horizon. A welcome
invasion of the flesh:
earth, roots, bark, blade
and mind’s eye open—yet
now afraid of a real rain,
to be drunk with it—
to let go and be ravaged
at last, to turn loose the dry
and dusty lines of poetry,
my plodding momentum tied
to bare dirt and empty skies—
afraid to howl, to learn
the language of the gods,
to speak in tongues
and dance with trees
far from my secure delirium,
these years of drought.
Eight inches gentle rain, yet
the creek shrinks up canyon,
drawn back by thirsty ground.
Hills slick in shadows stretched
up draws, yet not a trickle
leaks to cobbled beds.
Slow sips, four dry years
not yet quenched, the gods
have been merciful—
brought dusty flesh
back to life with grass
green between the feet
of dancing naked trees
along the creek. Our hearts
pump with its flow—
though nearly idle soaking now—
pound with its raging
promises of spring reflections:
Wood Ducks courting
beneath long-limbed canopies
of sycamores dressing.
I yearn ahead, scout
the moving parts
we’ve yet to play
as I write this
moment’s gift
of today.
drycrikjournal 