After a slow three-day rain,
clay dust dark brown and firm,
we think we see a tinge of green
before wet seed has time to burst
with open-handed cotyledons
through the saturated dirt.
Yesterday, on the optometrist’s screen
I see my eyeballs and optic nerves
that anticipate such good fortune:
bare ground, sloping hillsides
carpeted with short green—
a start to change our luck.
for Terence Miller
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cotyledons, Drought, eyes, grass, green, optic nerve, optometrist, photography, poetry, rain, seed, weather
No sense.
Nonsense.
Sometimes most clearly
through the eyes
of the bewildered
we see ourselves
spawned upon this earth
not as peacemakers
nor avenging angels,
but fallible and human
driven to plod on.
How do we find our grace
like salmon,
like rattlesnakes
born elsewhere?
How do we know the way
it makes us,
shapes us
into words,
into song?
for Merilee
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged expression, eyes, Grace, Home, life, photography, poetry, song
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