poem

we’re all smelling rain, upcountry here, where there isn’t any, yet, 

of course, but we want it. We want rain all fall and all winter and 

all spring well into the next year, even tho we’ll complain of wet, 

the floodings, the mudslides of stone and earth falling into our

very roads and into our rivers, and we’ve reason to wonder at 

Mother Nature, of whom we may be banned off her lap, as if 

we were not the best of her kids, probably not, at all....

I’m afraid of the stillness in the roar of a fire - and the smells...

the ways the sky is smoking and burning to high heavens...

the dry acridity that catches our breaths and makes throats raw.

I’m not happy when A Fire is close. I’m not happy when It’s far. 

Containment means acres to me now, and I know the size of that. 

the golden, rollin’ hills of California, in that song: it all looks like 

kindling to me, now, for miles...I’m not only wary. I’m alert like

jack rabbit, my nose twitching to the signals of all the predators

I’m sure are more aware of me than I of ‘them’...Fire is So Serious.

we’re all saying it’s going to be an early winter, because we want

that - not the lions roaring on the savannah that is our grasses, 

bringing wicked flames to live more threatening than any animal...

defensible space around me, looks so small, lately....

Time to Dance a Rain Dance. time to hold Hope like an cloud, 

filled with all that air rising up the mountains, carrying rain. Rain.

Rain Come Down. Rain....

Tags