for Mikaela
A different idea of wild
than the rest—
more thoughtful,
more simply built.
I hold a flashlight
to the future
you wrote,
watch words
like night-blooming weeds
reseed barren earth.
Monthly Archives: February 2014
Coast Live Oak
Even on mild days
we seek your shade,
bare legs painted
in shadows of leaves.
Nearby, a stream
cuts its soft seam to the sea,
a hawk overhead circling.
Sun-bleached Manzanita
In a drift of sage
your smooth bones remain,
rusted bark gone
along with your life of leaves.
I would have liked to ride
in the stage that made its way
to Santa Cruz,
this low mountain pass
more than just a day hike then,
when you grew
young and fast.
My One True Ocotillo
So dry, all spine—
I thought maybe you died,
but with the rain
you’re armored
in tiny leaves again.
I like the way you hold your flowers
just above the moon,
my one true ocotillo,
carefully scribbled
against the sky.
Matilija Poppy
In your lonesome
coastal canyon
you send rhizomes
through the sand. Queen
of California flowers—overexposed
in my open hand.
Why you stabilize
this hillside
I will never understand—
I would let it slide
but I am not so married
to the land.
You hold the air!
You burn my eyes!
Your crinkled neon white
and ruff of yolk-gold
enough to please
our native bees—
I would not love this place
if you could leave.
I Thought I Loved
for Aneesa
I thought I loved
your delicate brain
best and so I started
a clover chain—
I meant to crown you
Queen of Pleasant,
Impassioned Arguing,
but half-through
changed the theme.
I’ve pressed my wet palms
to the cement
and though the sun
is set on disappearing it—
look here!—your soft heart
in silhouette.
Maple Sapling
The way the maple
tips its fine branches
to the ground
I find a restful line
to travel
and that’s enough for now.
Guest Post – A fourth haiku by Paul Spielman.
I thought a haiku
but I did not write it down.
Where is that haiku?
One Unconnected Day
You should have seen
how easily
it got away—
noiselessly and through
the window screen.
I hoped that it would stay
the way a cloud might
but saw no more of it
and now it’s night.
Making a Morning
I am making
a morning,
taking a moment
in the plush chair
that spins
to face west
and hold the valley
in my head
before I test
hot tea.
In this glass house
high on a hill,
no one else awake.