drycrikjournal

                                                    who must turn
                    everything to words while they, so alive
                    need so few to speak their loves.
                                    – Keith Wilson (“The Streets of San Miguel”)

Some sing, so under-joyed that the trees weep
beneath a veil of blues, a song that struggles,
wriggles to be set free as a missive to the gods

grown deaf to the old tunes. Some can whistle
in the dawn to claim the dark shade, but when
the sky slips down the mountain like a fog,

I see all the dear faces gone and search my box
of words, reaching deeply as I dare, when
holding-on to a kind thought is often enough.

                                                                in memory of Jane Nash & Old Visalia—
                                                                ‘a true friend from beginning to end.’

There seemed time—
like an endless ribbon
over hillocks stitched
with barbed wire and
split redwood, then
steel T-posts
through a sea of grass.

There seemed time
to get it all done—fix
the float, re-hang
the carried gate
and repay the favors
of neighbors and strangers—
to say the right things.

There seemed time
to visit the infirmed
waiting for sunset,
welcome the newborn
and guide the child
with love and truth—
there seemed time.

Evenings beyond fences, we run
among newborn calves, cigarette
and glass of wine listening to

our childish glee and laughter,
each buck and run unique displays
of finding legs for the future.

To the drone of local news
leaking through the screen door,
we plan tomorrow, replay

cattle strategies punctuated
by coyotes up canyons
and an answer from the dog.

We could be on the bow of a ship
watching the world pass, or
astraddle a log in a swollen river

as new mothers come to water—
never the same landscape
until the light is gone.

                    At night make me one with the darkness.
                    In the morning make me one with the light.
                             -Wendell Berry (“Prayers and Sayings of the Mad Farmer”)

In time, we will give into dreamless sleep,
rest with the dust and debris of other lives,
within the comfort and compost of grand trees,

eventually. One earth, the fertile dirt awaiting
seed, and rain, and with the sun’s pull upward,
the possibility of fruit—let me be one leaf

open at dawn, let these old knees find grace,
impaired ears, the tune. One last slow dance
with you among the shadows of the moon.

                                                                for Robbin

                    Don’t own so much clutter that you will be relieved to see
                    your house catch fire.
                                   – Wendell Berry (“Prayers and Sayings of the Mad Farmer”)

One would think with age that utility
might parallel the flesh, lend assistance
with our last breath, yet the old barn bulges

with the past leaking through the bats
and boards of weathered one-by-twelves,
tin roof rusty, wind-turned at the edges.

Beyond the locked green doors, silver veil
of cobwebs, trunks in dark corners, scurry
of black widows saved for this moment

passed from before we were born.
We see what they could not burn—
the weakness of heart and the clutter

cleared from their minds as relinquished
totems of another time. We come to know
our blood, cling to tokens of who we are.