There is no God’s country. In this land
of a thousand dead oaks, no real rain
since September, the sun slants south again
and fitful winds pile hackberry leaves
on caliche.
Or can it mean we find faith in glimpses
of beauty? Cardinal red,
gold and scarlet finches perched
in persimmon, bright baubles
against winter’s dun
However you woke
(weighted with dread) after
a little time and sweat-
swish through grass, touch
of cedar bark and shade-
scramble over broad rocks,
trickle of water into green-deep
unpeopled pools, these tangled trees
who have been here longer
than any human grievance—
when you return you are more
ready to understand that despite
some millions of people
who can make you see red
there are those who dream, build, care
(see how Common Mestra float
in pale clouds at your step)
Armed with this smattering of field guides
for scattering of bird, insect, grass, and flower:
I classify and Latin-ize as antidote
to all this mess for which there are no words.
A wealth of hackberry, green-tipped
persimmon with black-ripe fruit,
Senna roemeriana, prairie verbena,
Commelina erecta, Mexican hat,
greenthread, horseherb…we have
a kind of grama, I find
this wander of grassburred yard
in searing sun a cleansing
of my conflict-edness. Call it plateau prairie
bathing. Cardinal song and swallowtail flutter, ants
at their harvest on long dirt roads, the surprise
of cenizo, purple-bloomed, thick with bees
The trail centers on winter’s wash
of pinecones, fallen trees rotted
riddled with critters
*
We know there will be rocks
sometimes sand or soft
pine litter but always rocks
to slide underfoot, trip
our toes, loom from the trees
tumbledown canyons
*
What foolish goal, hubris!
this hike to the summit! Up and up
such striving is for the young
shirtless, brazen in the brilliant sun
*
I stop and rest
my hand on honored ponderosa
whose bark dips and rises
layer on layer, a contour map
of years
*
Again up and up, legs burn
brush gambel oak, agave, and
years have slipped by
in such prickly things I forget
the contour of your shoulders
map of your arms
the wind in pine tops
does sound like sea
so we stretch like sunbathers
on a broad fallen log
while trees reach cone-crowned into blue
day wave-washes over
sun and time tumble
our jagged parts smooth
We’ve been here before
just passing through, post-
well, everything
boarded windows, fallen walls
rubble, rust, dust
blowing dust
cows and cotton, concrete blocks
on concrete towers, brush-piled
tumbleweeds, pecan trees, dead
pecans, oil derricks and trains
for miles empty miles
and miles
here we celebrate small
seasons, breath
between freeze and swelter
prickly pear paddles grown
green, fringed, wind
whipped up from the lake
verbena, butterfly-winged
I meant to tell you something sweet
to draw this conceit
of how a summer-full flower
sunlit and smooth
can still be of use
when cut, dead and dried
You see it started with my hands
the skin folds like old petals
and speckled with brown after all
we can’t stop time except
for hours this afternoon
I watched two boys throw and catch a ball
stand and stretch on that barren strip
of car-lined concrete
arm-whip and stoop and whip again
and my fingers curled with the urge
to let something rip
vigor and fury of muscle better
than pen-scratch, or sit and sip
this insipid tea
Raised on books I dreamed
of hawking and now I want
this raven, to call it
strong to my wrist
with such a longing I once had
to hold a child in my arms
But its magnificence
that black eye black
beak the breadth of it
vast wings open and fold
pause, a thoughtful look
through the glass, me
Use all as a tool, dear, to build a shelter for
your mind, and others in need. —Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
The tools are here: room of one’s own
unprecious time, colored pencils, light
from the window, yarn called pumpkin and
yarn called spice, even butterscotch and cotton
cord, beads, stamps, wire, awl and bone
folder, oodles of thread, necessary
candle, cup of tea, smell of sweet basil
hung to dry and
here I find myself
sitting I wonder
what to make of it all
Graceful Press Poetry 