March, April, May
Those hideous months of spring
And dying.
Times to drink to oblivion
Or get sober
Because things have gotten that bad.
More than once.
.
Summer is just a known
Constant staleness, defying perpetuity.
And time of asking calendars
About the rules of a waiting game,
Measured in drought,
Day length,
And sometimes tomatoes.
.
Give me those 4 days in October,
September, November.
Doesn’t matter:
It’s when the counting ceases,
And the shadows come to stay.
Overhead: the soaring sounds,
Calling.
Down here:
The edgy electricity
Jostles limbs,
Loosening blackened blooms
And thickened tassels
Of tiny pears to the back porch
Wind chime chatter.
Damn these winds!
To stir stale oceans,
Stomping seasons,
And lifting life anew
In their leaving.
The jostle of limbs,
Loosening more tiny pears,
To the erratic beat of restless wind chimes,
While overhead, the soaring sound persists.
Down here: an edgy electricity.
Damn those winds!
That stir oceans,
Recharge life,
And change seasons.
In one fell swoop.
When the weather watchers start to confer,
Be wary,
…..Be wary of day jobs, partners,
And farm animals needing attention.
The caddis only happen once
And this might be your best
Or last:
Should you be the fatalistic type.
Set the horizon just above the bones
There.
Lying deep in chill
Layered in soiled mantles,
The spring grass waits
In the churn of hope
And the customs that years tend to build.
Like promises from old friends:
Taken easily,
without haste,
And carried through the field.
.
Mind this vista well.
Explore the escapes of hills
And secret creeks,
Long walks during the bright times,
Wanderings during foggy mornings,
And the staggering stupors
Of the dying weeks.
.
Lean back,
Eyes closed,
Stars above,
Feet below.
Breathe the air,
Sparkling now,
Shimmering,
In evening’s soft glow.
.
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.
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.
Here on the coast, Spring seems to launch itself in full force one day, hunker down the next all the while building to the next crescendo of a calm, sunny morning. Up in the hills, still soggy and chilly from yesterday’s rain, black trumpet mushrooms are scattered under the tan oaks secretly playing the songs of a passing winter. Craterellus are a bit difficult to spot, but once clued in, they can appear in scattered patches bursting through a forest floor littered with light colored tan oak leaves. Clean them up, saute’ with olive oil, butter, thyme and a wee bit of salt and pepper, add them to caramelized leeks, toss in a little creme fraiche at the end. Layer them with a bit of gruyere in a tart shell and you will be reminded that life remains solidly in the good zone. Serve with a salad of fresh spring arugula, last fall’s kabocha squash and roasted seeds and heaven can be found in every bite.
From across the room, the sound comes though the door, along the face of the window and down from the ceiling. Rain sings along the street out front. The calla lilies out front fill with the water beading up along their silky white bloom. Across the hills, tendrils of fog waft upward from the forest in a great cycle of the water returning skyward. Today, this place is painted all green and grey – spring on hold while winter reaches out once more to soothe us maybe one last time before it all goes away into summer.
A recent day afield…
Shaken Rain 