Some come quickly now,
a phrase to trigger more
coiled upon the ground
while others hibernate for days,
for weeks and months,
as if they might be dead
without the touch of rain—
that hard and brittle
mindset to survive
like deep-rooted filaree
with all its colors,
with all its seed
waiting for a kiss.
I know no other way
to pen prosody.
A single pod of seeds, the bare
redbud volunteer, come spring,
will obscure my view of the road;
the world beyond this black morning—
beyond the owl in the oaks above me;
the cobbled mumbles of the creek.
With the hillside chorus of coyotes
and canyon’s replies, the ridgeline
holds-up heaven’s brilliance
in a sky of stars—unabashed
and unafraid of any circumstance
that may engulf us all.
all is consumptive
We have grown fat
on the numbers since
we lost our taste
for words that matter.
Like waiting for a rain
to settle dust
and bring verdancy,
the storms will come
to cleanse this earth
and thunder verily.
Never a straight line, we bend
with the channel of the creek
with or without water, jobs
shouting at every turn, begging
for attention. I love it now,
seasoned and with purpose,
place after place to pour my soul,
to get it right. Chances are
my fence repairs will outlast me,
gates will swing, troughs hold water
out of respect for the ground—
for the cattle and those around me.
Never a straight line, cows cut trails
on perfect grades, leave soft dust
to plod tomorrow without thinking,
make beds in shade for generations
they will never know. In the end
it becomes our nature to make
living easier on the uneven,
on the unpredictable and the harsh
that will eventually absorb us.
Chances are, no one will notice,
no applause for our best effort—
only the knowing a job well done.
WPC(2) — “Doors”
waiting between casualties
dream of misfortune.
WPC(2)–“Forces of Nature”
A fluttering of other lives
busy nesting out of reach—
dry thatches stashed on beams
under eaves like apartments
with squabbling, feathers floating,
on and on—as we lumber
beneath them, intertwined.
Crows claim the tops
of power poles on 65
through rolling hills of oats,
stacks of sticks close to roadkill—
adapting quickly to our urgencies,
to these forgotten outposts
of railroad towns
growing closer together.