No moon, no stars,
she sneaks up canyon
in the dark an hour late
from the black
as if she never left.
A sprinkle kisses the roof
I cannot see, but hear
find its way to earth.
After midnight, my mother
would turn the porch light off,
so no one knew I wasn’t home
when we had neighbors, trails
between cabins in the mountains
I knew by braille
and by the sound
of my young feet, light
upon the night trails.
In the end, no one cares
exactly when it rained—
only that it came.
There might have been another way,
other people, places, things—more or less
obstacles to overcome, rest upon—
but no straight line, no short cuts
across the board to get to this spot
along the creek waiting for a rain.
I believe the weatherman, refresh
my contact with the goddess,
send my love in letters, words
rearranged to attract her
attention, but I’m no lackey
to scrape and bow, grovel at her
pretty feet. It’s not the same as before
she left without a sign or warning.
There might have been another way:
studied harder, charged more
for a shorter trip across the board—
but how could HERE ever be the same.
Between Jeffers’ jagged edge
and Snyder’s Sierra peaks,
we graze grassy folds of clay
on cold fractured granite pushed
through titled sheets of shale.
Dealt deep canyons, ridges lined
like sunlit face cards: hearts
and diamonds glint with winter
dawn. We gamble lifetimes,
season after season with the goddess—
a diaphanous myth embodied
in the least encompassing the greatest—
more humane than the currency
of unreasonable religions,
or governments—she comes and goes
as she pleases, teases us like children
and we obey. No other mother
more erotic in a storm
pushing rafts of limbs and leaves
down a creek rising—our faces
streaked with tears of rain.
A taste of rain tinkling in the downspout
too light to hear upon the metal roof,
yet under this common wet covering
her scent mends everything
for the moment, for another beginning
and we inhale it—lungs full of new life.
And when we pray, it’s to the Goddess—
mother, lover—for our sustenance,
for the bloom and fruit of flesh renewed
as the damp earth exhales, breathes easily
to taste each lingering drop
that settles upon its petaled tongue.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Dry Creek, flower-friday, goddess, photographs, poetry, rain, water, weather, wildlife
Certain privileges, prerogatives
to come and go as she pleases,
she’s more like a cat than a cow,
sometimes leaving reasons to return
now, like ex-lovers can, dancing
at safe distances out of reach
and out of touch. I don’t begrudge
her company, her gossamer veil
or frivolous wet kisses—she does
what she wants. We don’t have to be
in love, but his ground needs more—
and repeated thunderstorms of lust.