Writing about camping recently on Bodega Bay harbor and enjoying another sunset in the town where my parents lived in their retirement, I was reminded of the following poem.
A Year in Three Sunsets, 2007
1.
Mom's street slides down the hill
and curves back up. At the bottom
of the loop my son and I stop
and watch the Pacific open
its mouth for the sun. We wait
for the green flash that might occur
on a clear day just after the sun
slips into the ocean and that
so delighted Dad. Today
there is none.
2.
The remote
shuts the garage door on the now
quiet house that pulsed while all
our children visited. Seeking the coast
we turn west on 128, drive
through the rain and fog and into
a tunnel of moss-hung trees. Reaching
Highway 1 we squiggle north for a time
along the edge of the Pacific before
pulling into a turnout. We climb
down to a cove and picnic in its shelter
while white horses race across the waves
manes and tails flying. Later
as the ocean slides over the sun
the highway empties. In every turnout
humanity silences the rush
and faces west as though commanded
by the twilight to attend. We turn
so quickly, I say.
3.
A man stands
in the brown grass of the cliff
along the bottom curve of the loop
hands waiting in his leather jacket's pockets
camera expectant on a tripod
as our slice of earth turns
away from the sun. All around the loop
people stand at windows
on decks. I run up the steps
calling to Mom. She is standing already
by the sliding glass door. We watch the sun
expand at the edge of the ocean
and the clouds glow fiery then fade
and the ocean and clouds merge
into twilight and it seems everything
holds its breath
to listen
to the sensation of peace.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Sonata: Fresno, 1999
I've taken over a hundred pictures lately of an hibiscus that was given to me by a ninety-one-year-old friend when I came home from the hospital last summer. It nearly died outside in our unusually cold winter but managed to survive when I finally brought it into our bathroom. I eventually moved it to the corner windows by our kitchen sink, where it has bloomed repeatedly, profusely, ever since. I am awestruck by its huge blooms of intense color, ruffled and curved and veined petals, and intricate long stamen. Photoing the hibiscus again this week, I was reminded of a poem I wrote fifteen years ago and have of course revised every time I bring it out.
Allegro
I dig weeds, lop off seed heads,
prune wayward branches, chop
(and curse) the redwood
with its endless debris and offspring,
drain grit from sprinkler lines (and later
dig it out from under my nails).
Andante
Ra-nun-cu-las,
a-nem-o-nes,
(lush syllables in my mouth)
intensely imbued petals though shy
above their feathered leaves
(my older son’s first spring).
Periwinkle
roams, exuberant,
starred. California poppies
are wildflowers
but their trust
was hard earned. “Oh!”
She realizes I am crouched
over
here, weeding. “I picked
your iris.” I kiss my butt
to the dirt. “Take more.
Come again.” Bearded irises’
curves and ruffles stupefy me.
Scherzo
Strawberries,
baby’s tears,
gazanias, you may have
your say, but you,
forget-me-nots, believe me,
I won’t forget you—
seedlings already crowd
your feet which is why
I am yanking you
out by the armload but I
do love your blue clouds.
Mexican
primrose:
insouciant dancers,
swirling your skirts,
stomping your boots, clenching roses
in your teeth, while your deceptive
wiry roots greedily creep
through the soil to multiply
your tenacious dancers
like funhouse mirrors.
Finale
In
the shade of a trio of crepe myrtles
that gloriously bloom mid-summer,
club flowers and heart leaves
skim the soil on runners, offspring
of our first home’s violets. If I am
deer still
a scent almost
not there whispers in my nostrils
on the breeze that brings too
foreign conversation of a herd
of bumblebees foraging
in the hollyhocks that nod
in the hot sun.
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