Brown Winter

Midmorning we walk the dog, our footprints
grassy brown trails melted in last night's frost.
Beyond Portneuf Gap, Bonneville Peak rises,
white mirage promising the river a good flow
on sunny days.  At the edge of the golf course
small sagebrush plants, two inches high, engage
the enemy lawn.  Tumbleweed ambles across
the fairway, hangs up on a fence, unexpected delay.
As nine Canada geese lift from the river, wings spread
to catch wind which pushes clouds toward us from
the west, we wait, impatient for the new weather
foretold by aching bones.  Irregular columns of basalt,
old lava flow, the outwash plain from Chink's Peak,
long brown ridges tell a simple story.  Head lifted
to the wind, the dog leans against me.  Together
we watch the small river curve back on itself,
lined by burdock.  Nothing will tame us.
Many small blessings answer my prayers.
 
 

Change of Season

This afternoon I walk out to the mailbox
carrying another letter addressed to you.
Dusty smell of arrowleaf balsamroot blows
down from dry hills and Scout Mountain
wears a cap of lenticular cloud.

                        Last weekend autumn
rolled in across the valley of Pebble Creek
two days of rain, hail inches deep on mud.
Aspens told stories, gray trunks carved
Vitalio Gonzalez 1989  Julio Ortiz 1978
Basque shepherds who summered there.
Beaver ponds filled up, campsites emptied.

                            Now I walk toward home
beneath low-angled light of almost equinox.
Enfolded by mountains my quiet changes
come and go, old fashioned patterns:  today
the season of the smell of arrowleaf balsamroot.
 
 

Autumn Equinox

Junction of seasons, we now reach this equinox
you and I, Father, each passing through a different age.
Nursing home visit, at your bedside I take your hand
worn smooth with time, spotted randomly with brown
marked by the changes of years, the settling of frost
frail bones beneath skin translucent with memory.

How many times have we talked of memory?
Each spring and autumn the change of equinox
marked by the departure and arrival of frost
whiteness of morning grass signaling a new age
green bound to spring from last year's brown
and so we begin to reach out a warm hand.

We used to walk, my hand safe in your hand,
through libraries museums zoos, now memory
brings to mind those dusty moments, brown
with the passage of time.  But the equinox
draws together our seasons, different in age
yet doomed as all the rest to a final frost.

So many years since we dressed warm against frost
venturing onto the river ice.  You cut a hole by hand
we fished all day, the cold wind a warning of age
no one could hear.  How close I feel to memory
recalled by the junction of family and equinox
a ritual mixed from pigments of green and brown.

You showed me oak leaves hanging in winter, brown
rich color beneath the white film of frost.
Now we are reversed, child to parent, an equinox
but so strange when I lead you by the hand.
If only we could be back in time of memory
you young and I younger, both without age.

Facing death, the next generation comes of age
spots on the backs of my hands turning brown
now my son tells stories of his times of memory
bones chill at the inevitable approach of frost
the generations hold, hand in hand in hand,
together in the cycle of years, meeting at equinox.

Somehow I thought age would never touch you with frost
time holds you, an old brown photo, with a gentle hand.
But no defense, even memory, protects us against equinox.
 
 

Succotash

Grandma boiled everything in a pot.
she made succotash from lima beans
hamburger and a boiled potato.
Tasting with a wooden spoon
she said, Good, eat it all up
and we'll have ice cream for dessert.
The cat dishes were empty under the wink
begonias scrabbled on the windowsill
for the last light of the day.
Grandma unrolled the pint of vanilla
with fingers knotted by arthritis
cut two slices to set on blue saucers.
The kitchen chair was too big for me.
Swinging my feet, I ate with a silver spoon.
 
 

Burning Love

The earth completes one more revolution.
We see a house finch, breast reddening with love.
Sunday the first rapid irregular flutter of wings
sounds from the chimney.  Each year they return, restless,
agitated by flooding sunlight, vibrating with renewed joy.
They shelter in snug secluded places, fitting for a nest.
Wings beat against chimney bricks, excitement reverberates
from hearth and walls.
                        Late afternoon sun gleams pale yellow,
the house chills.
                        We kindle pine logs, flaming, false dawn,
bright destruction hot as passion.  Imprisoned by terror
wings echo the excited flurry of nesting, vibrate and sear,
blossoms in desert wind.  After the stink of burning passes
we hear profound quiet, the wind sighing in the chimney.
 
 

Inheritance

Great Uncle Ed was born in a sod hut,
sunflowers danced on the roof.
Inside his mother did nothing but think for weeks,
so they took her to the crazy place where
she died alone. None of her children
made it to the funeral.

He was a cowboy, left home in 1887
broke horses for the XIT Ranch in wide Montana.
Waiting out the winter lonesome between mountain
and prairie, he played tunes on a cracked fiddle,
rode two hundred miles to a dance.

Uncle Ed left his fiddle to me.  On winter nights
his spirit makes me look to that fiddle, unlock the case.
My right foot taps rhythm, I remember all the words.
Some day I will visit his grave on the high plains
plant a sunflower, play Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.

Because he is under sod again
and I want to make the flowers dance.
 
 
 

Not Lust But Passion

Pine trees hide the pale half moon.
Not the least suggestive.  What disobedient
low pressure zone pulls south wind, moisture
from the Pacific Ocean?  We hungered for
dampness after too many sunshine days
blue skies.  Now a promise of snow.  Chapped
lips kiss like rough lumber, evidence of years.
Compressed into a ball, memories bud, late
afternoon.  Mountains wreathed, clouds down
to 6000 feet.  Separate threads, each woven
into the whole.  Dependent clause contrary
expectation, powerful appetite burning, boundless
desire.  Parched, the yellow landscape returns
desert, grass dying, gone to weeds and sagebrush,
after a hundred years cedars.  Burned by intense heat.
The color red, not heard from for months now whispers from
willows at the beaver pond.  Dyed yellow by frost landscape
glows this February day.  Weather, tonal solutions, drops
condensed from atmospheric vapor, pale clouds move in
straight lines through the valley.  We know who
rules the sky.  Gray fog warmth blankets mountains.
Rebellious, refractory, moving in undisciplined ways,
spoiled.  Sun and rain go about their business,
moon and stars without us,  Such a cruel gift, life.
 
 

Why We Go to the Desert

Red canyon opens a crack, petrified castle spires
rising in earth colors, burnt ochre praise of sun.
We two and our dog trudge upstream along a dry wash
feet slipping in sand powdered by flash floods.
Nothing much lives here.  Cedars brush up
olive green leaves aromatic, durable reddish wood.
A few dried grass blades and lizards.  Charged
swift with heat the small reptiles hurry
patterns of movement a hymn of belonging.
In the dry stream bed the dog finds a seep
laps at the sweet water, then lies down
cool and mossy in the green puddle.  Envious
we sit in hot shade beneath a nearby rock
drink warm water from a plastic bottle.
Brilliant jewel, a hummingbird buzzes past.
We hike down to the San Rafael River, cottonwood
oasis.  Alkali water the color of milk rushes
over stones and we hunker in the current, worship
the river miracle, wet twist in the narrow gorge.
Then lowering sun lights orange canyon walls,
yellow steeples throw longer shadows, the air cools.
Darkness follows, borne on the wings of bats.
 
 

A Definition of Love

We open morning curtains
on a sky no weatherman predicted
pale snow falling, not yet written on
indoors incandescent bulbs burn warm
but we turn away, pull on wool sweaters
our hearts feel maximum lightness.

Shoestrings through eyelets tighten
boots square-toed to fit ski bindings.
Some cord threads through openings
around two hooks on opposite sides
weaving our lives together, delicate
fabric tied in weblike pattern.

Snow whirls off the ridge, melts on faces
we ski up Coyote Gulch past the beaver pond
fringed with aspens the creek shrinks
open water between snowbanks, indistinct song
willows color up, sap already flowing
anticipation of the first warm kiss.

Cheeks flushed, ruddy hue of warmth
we breathe deeply and push our arms and legs
this ancient rhythm as familiar as birdsong
moves us uphill until we turn to start
the long slow glide back to town
where flames glow in the woodstove.

Night, turn out the lamp, pull up the covers
I curve next to you, my hand on your chest
our breathings match and slow together.
Outside the unexpected snow continues
the creek and the willows and the wind
our dreams fly up the canyon, home.
 
 

Elegy for Mother

I hold my pen between tired fingers
drawing words like thread from a spindle.
A ghost intrudes.  I stand at the open door.
The wind is colder.  Not even dusk can wake
the dead.  You accumulate sorrow.  Around
you my dreams open and close.  Eaves drip
clear water, icicles fall into caverns.
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