• Grieving,  Lung Cancer,  Nature,  Poetry

    Harper

    for robyn I am grabbing at life today silhouettes of dogwood, white ash, and tulip poplar a delirious pleasure the light through the trees illuminates particles i know we are the dust of it all. harper can smell the fragments in green blades, smoke, and vermin miles away. her dark wet nose and keen mind will know up to forty feet what is buried below the ground only she knows what is stale in the rafts and scurf the biological richness of my human debris. isn’t the devastation and the trauma of grief tangled into the molecules the bits and seeds of me? we share the bed now and i…

  • Nature,  Poetry

    Eureka Lake Road

    September’s fields of tall, crisp stalks are like dry soldiers martyred by harvest— Their innards, tender and warm produce reveal robust kernels or rot— the industry of cutworms, beetles, borers. Tassels are fingered by hurried youth unloaded from yellow, sticky buses their bundled glands pumping sweat into drenched long sleeves and socks. At the lake, the basin is scorched, undressed by drought. Groups of family geese with black necks and white cheeks stagger across the cracks in the mud bed and huddle as they honk. Their chests and bellies protrude, hovering over the dried membranes of their feet. They will decide to go—take flight in their groups. Yet it is…

  • Depression,  Joy,  Nature,  Oregon,  Poetry,  Vineyard

    North Valley Road

      The llamas are splendid No rain to drench their coats. They remain woolly and soft, regal in posture. I envy their quiet eyes The Western sky is nature’s best white-blue, a slow stretch above the horizon, underneath a canopy of cottony clouds–  a pale swatch echoing stillness The orchards are empty with smoke rising from little piles of trimmings The woods are stripped for winter, but kind firs lend density and a few trees have their moment– Pears show their amber dressings and a Red Oak cries out a crash of joyous crimson. Hay fields are quiet, green patches folded upon themselves with brown stitching and the bare vineyards seem asleep but…