Placeholder for Climate observations

Before they change,

And become logs of numbers

Days in 2021

And how they turn

From one day, one season

Wobbling now,

In cycles of vertigo.

Straighten us,

In your eddies

Where the long sun

Hangs and plays with colors

Yes hold this for climate in poems

Not numbers

The PMD Chronicles. Page 1.

April 20, 2021

Western North America

Before the wind blows, the morning will hang raw and sunny. There is a bare urgency that hangs in the leaves of a cottonwood looming over everything here. The trembling leaves now might tell us the waiting is nearly over. The air has a stretched stillness to it, about to break time’s pace open to its whims.

We will participate, now into this day hammering into every crevice of the bank, through every stone, and seeping into our bones. The sun still shines warm and bright, the sky can easily pull you away.

Later, thunderstorms will build over the hills ringing the valley, deepening our backdrop, focusing our will into the hope that change will happen. This will turn, and leave us again in stillness. And we move with the water’s rhythm, pushed by wind into the next bend. Here we might stop and see the first of evenings bugs pulled upward, or tumbled along the water’s steady surface. A trout might even take a grab here or there, teasing us with their sudden disappearances after we think we’ve figured them out. We lean and ponder, search water, feel wind, absorb a big sky alive with later afternoon. This is where all else falls away.

That day

She first asked me in that cloying way,

When things are up for hiding.

She asked me again,

When I shook my head not hearing this go.

And then she asked

if I remembered that tiny piece of March,

And how it dug deep into our skin

And lasted

Until we couldn’t bear it any more.

How Fall turns to Winter

After the rain came,

In a great pulsing return,

Like old friends reconvened,

Their hiatus, of generations,

Watching salmon move on

From the filling pools,

Only to falter in skinny water,

And return to the quiet depths,

And hopefully sweeter respite.

.

With storm winds fading over night,

Days resume their routine:

Morning’s great bridge aglow,

Providing free passage,

To the quiet witnesses

Of nights reclaim.

Weeping

Tiny flashes of light sliding down,

Her tears reflecting Sunday morning,

Invited in

Through the wide windows,

open, lingering bright

over wide streets.

.

She draws music, slowly

To counter this urban jostling

Unknowingly sketching a memory

Just as the years turn to days,

And seasons linger on the palate,

While our scant strides,

sometimes made while leaping,

Are hardly noticed

In the narrow spaces above

this great wheel.

.

But that day.

Who knew,

The songs it pulled from her then,

just a pause now,

Goosebumps on a chilly night,

When a lamp might trace the path

From the lullaby memory of a city street,

To the damp path,

Through a new forest

Thriving in the rain.

Big Fish, Patience and Loss

How Fish bite

I once spent twelve years trying to catch a fish,

In one particular place

Deliberate in my fantasy

Lured on by this water

That fancied a fish.

And when it came,

In the space where afternoon

Begins to turn golden

And quiet,

But long before the time of frogs,

Or the last of summer’s blackberries

Cast their liquored spell,

A slow motion swirl,

A great heaving beacon across the flat water,

Slow motion, now,

In the way that memories become.

The jolt through arm and body

Letting out a great whoop,

Before it went silent again,

Suddenly.

And Evening resumed it’s course,

And I stopped counting in years.

Wait for Me

Wait for me

In the place past midnight

Where the second hand marches into eternity

Away from the banality of hours

And the drudgery of minutes

We are told these dark empty spaces

Should raise us from sleeps

Or at least tighten

Our fetal clutches

In some unmade terror.

But this is where we come to meet

And stroll freely through

These dark hills

Shouldering winding paths

Fringed in the bright flowers unfolding

After a passing spring shower.

The Topography of Rain (a rewrite)

These are songs we rehearse

Only to ourselves.
Feigning patience,
In the thick stagnation
When the wind fell away,
And the sun is all that is left.
.
This time of smoke
And old valleys
Sitting low, in their once verdant chairs,
Bosomy ranges now creaking, tight,
Under their own thirsty landscapes.
.
In this time of waiting,

Rhythms are scribbled across a dry creek bed:
Brittle choirs of sand and pebble,

Playing to a listless audience,

Muted in dust.

How the Rain Might Visit

These are songs we dare speak

Only to ourselves

While we wait

Patiently

Through the thick stagnation

We encounter somewhere

Between summer and fall

When the wind falls away,

And the sun is all that is left.

.

This time of smoke

And old valleys

Sitting low, in their once easy chairs

Of coastal ranges gone tight

And creaking

Under their own thirsty landscapes.

.

You can just about hear the memories:

Water-worn tales amidst the dust and rounded gravels,

Once verdant glee,

All gone brittle,

In this time of waiting.