It could be Climate Change
or a changing of the guard,
an East Coast winter without end—
a sky full of harbingers,
floating clips of recycled news
fishing for the self-righteous
with seasoned bits of drama.
In one hand we hold Chekhov’s
mirror on our modern world.
Or are the clouds obfuscation,
each changing shape
of our imagination: our addiction?
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.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged "The Cherry Orchard", Anton Chekhov, Baby Blue Eyes, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, rain, senses, weather, White-Veined Mallow, wildflowers