Tag Archives: poetry

The birds begin to think in pairs
as these old hills begin to breathe
soft green from crusty brown.

Two young blackbirds inspect
last year’s redwood limbs
to house the colony, safe-haven

from crows and ravens, easy
to defend. Two by two, the quail
titter down garden trails

too cold to plant. The crimson
chests of finches gleam before
drab ladies on the railing

when not picking at
old nests in the roof beams,
half-heartedly. Too early yet

for songs of love and making
babies when these old hills
have just begun to breathe.

Low snow on the steep ground,
a slow melt soaking slopes
for Golden Poppies and wild lavender.

Still on the rise, the old man
hasn’t left his post looking down
upon us, the floods and droughts.

Born forty million years ago,
he’s seen the worst of weather
changes—few things as sure today.

wild lavender

                                                   I think we should keep
                    some of this, in case God comes back
                    to see what we did with it.
                                        – William Stafford (“The Whole Thing”)

He’s been away, it seems, left His lackeys
asleep on the ridge, or dressing up, waving
their diaphanous sleeves before the polished

window glass of town. We could have used
some help, some rain to inspire more Glory
in our eyes, our minds, our flesh—this grass

refreshed. Busy it seems, hands full
with despots and tyrants beyond our horizons,
this dry ground forgotten to endure with our own

small labors. Now we are the found strays
coming into hay we taste on wet nostrils,
ready to follow through any open gate.

Upon the ridge between
Ragle and Live Oak Canyons,
a mile or more three miles away,

sun and moon seasons slide
Solstice to Solstice
when there is no way

to measure time exactly—
days without names
beginning behind

                    a different tree
                    to diffuse the light
                    for a moment

and I am blind, lost to this world,
refreshed—each new day
sliding between the canyons.

It takes dry wood to keep the fire
going, cutting, splitting and the timely
delivery to glowing coals to stay warm—

the archaic rituals of individualists:
the harvests of backyard gardens,
the battles with weeds and pests

that win eventually. We choose
the hard way to save a dime, we say,
spend two-bits for a nickel raise.

Throwbacks to the old ways:
shovel, hoe and axe—hand-to-hand
combat with this earth, this dirt.

Small accomplishments that will
not change the world. We grow wild
to live among the foes we know

in this life and the next. Cordwood
warming moments, fruit wood
tasting of independence.

Not far from here, wet-haired calves
wake beside their mothers, bellies dry
where they’ve warmed the earth

and they will nurse before the bunch
grazes the tops of ridges, damp clay
hillsides soft between their toes.

We didn’t ask for much more
than a heavy dew after a month of dry
to keep the grass alive, didn’t beg

or pray or dance before our gods—
but waited stoically as dead-standing
oaks reflected in our eyes.

Old children with hardened hides,
we have been disciplined by years
of drought and disappointment,

we wait and weigh our options
with rain enough to last a week—
hope enough to last a lifetime.