Tag: storms

Winter on the Eel

~ SamF

Suddenly, the leaves are all gone.

The storms gave ample notice:

Ignored.

.

The alders will now paint the day’s luster,

On a rare afternoon, posing

As a cruel cheat of Autumn,

Dripping spoonfuls of honey,

Across the big bends of a fresh river.

.

Evenings are still two months out.

.

Here, morning’s curfew still remains

As some lame excuse for the wind

Spoiling the silty corners

After the flood.

.

The easy drips from mossy rocks,

The rare percussion:

The work of silent, green water.

.

I’m trying so desperately 

To soak this winter into my bones,

As the water draws lines,

And curves,

And the circles hide things.

.

I know the kids still lean over the bridge,

Peering,

Into the green water mystery,

Waiting to see the ghosts

Brushing against the emerald velvet

Of winter’s passing.

Your Arms

~ SamF

Outstretched into a warm, fetching wind that will define this winter.

Your arms,

Frustration and reaching,

One more time.

Your arms,

Grasping my lumbering, cold body

Shaking,

Pulled from a creek,

Thundering in flood.

.

Your arms,

Will soon hold me, bedridden and tired of the years,

Finally.

Your arms,

In April, as the sun’s hope returned

And I slipped easily into the familiar light,

Cast across us both in one last embrace.

Visiting

~ SamF

There, at the far end of the long, ramshackle yard,

Where grandpa’s garden starts,

And the apricot tree:

Pilfered Mockingbird delights,

For us, the watch from a circle of chairs

Some Sunday afternoon.

.

But that was before the rain,

And the wind, and shuttered windows,

Only to peek, to scratch its belly,

We knew when to stay in

And dash out,

Before the water came

Or in between.

.

Then we were graced with the long showery spring,

Great stories I was since told, in thunder and sun,

While I huddled in fear of night and flashing sounds,

In the time of peas,

And chicken manured spring gardens.

.

The San Joaquin would run high that spring

Into the summer

When the first zucchini bloomed,

And we rinsed the last of the mud from our socks.

Like it always was,

Back there, where the water still was.

New climates and old winter base flows

~ SamF

Gosh,

How the hydrology seeps back out of our bones,

Pouring across landscapes gone silent,

And waiting.

.

This is the way way it used to be,

Like some song playing in the corner juke,

When bars crowded early

And left well before closing.

.

This storm won’t give you resolution

Not yet,

Years will go by

Until the sun sets on a foggy bottom land

In the stalest of latest possible summers

When water is again a pastime,

As the next wind blows:

Turning heads, and raising the mutterings

Of those who still live out there.

Celebrating the 4th Rain

~ SamF

Like old days come to visit again,

Now the dampness will live here,

For a good long while, Defining

Hopefully

This place and this time.

Soon, the waves of hungry cold

Will take the leaves,

Peaches, pears, finally the apples.

Always the last apple.

.

Released, now

To a brief ease of playing in a fickle sun

Soon covered by the gauze of quick rains.

Rains that sneak through,

Leaving grand dripping choirs

And the late night sounds of wet soil.

.

The day opens to waters passing,

And the joy of new light.

Week of Dry Flies

~ SamF

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.

Sketch from the Orchard

~ SamF

As leaves loose summer’s grasp

They become ghostly ballerinas of the still air,

Glistening,

On the annual pilgrimage to winter’s soft cradle.

.

Morning here lingers well into the afternoon

And shadows replace light

As the preferred method of telling time.

.

Soon, the first winds will stir,

And the old days will be back,

If just for a moment.

The PMD Chronicles. Page 1.

~ SamF

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.

Experiments in the Wind

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment
This space, outside, like past years

Came back to visit, in cheers.

Bringing choirs,

Tenors

From trees above,

To the tiniest notes of sands,

All offered from December’s firm hands.

.

You might sing new a new rhythm

To the tells of water

And full moon lullabies.

An old song,

To cast off your wishes,

Before I move along.

.

Show me paths and leeside edens,

Your voice calling, should I turn

To hear.

Bits and pieces on this wheel

Turning,

In time’s great mirror.

.

To be free from this turn,

Take me to the place!

Just outside

the now and then,

Move me

to a different pace.

.

Those melodies pulse softly now,

Of stories you read,

From behind furrowed brow.

.

In electricity of the night you bring,

Nestled softly

In the damp cradle of spring.

.

Woo us from fields afar,

Peering through sky’s great fabric,

Of tatters and thread,

Let me in,

Return me to bed.

Winter’s Grace by the Numbers

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

How might I count the days?

.

By the sounds of rain

On a field at night?

.

Or should I tally mornings

Of fickle, teasing light,

On the edges of storms?

.

Could it be the screeching egret,

High overhead in dark skies,

Framing chilling air into promises

Of frosty tinkerings.

.

How might I add these days?

Where a single leaf,

Bright star fluttering,

Shuffles to rest,

To dream in the soft cradle of spring.