I drive a lot. It got me thinking.
Spinnings in her mind
chase anxious freeway speeders
quick to grind bumpers
tallying insanity
“For the love of…..?!”
someone in the fast lane is afraid to pass
or better yet, just gass’in the cell phone
Mirror check
Mirror check
Best to brake or pass fast?
She’s Peterbuilt and can’t stop.
How deep the gravel? How steep the grade?
The silent grave is broken
An air horn screams last year’s fatalities
Skid and spray
She’s not coming back
It’s fun reading this post. This exchange occured the first Spring of Devon’s mission, when she was so GREEN! Fun! In a week she will be home to embark on a new adventure. Can’t wait.
Butter knives?……and the Ides of March? Hmmmmm.
Salutations!
This week has felt like an eternity for me. It is good to be writing to you all again:) Last Monday, after emailing you all, we went to Royal Roads University. Otherwise known as the X-Men castle! It is out of my area, but we went with the Sister training leaders, Sister D. and Sister K., so it was okay. We also took butter knives and pretended to be wolverine! I got to wear pants and my swacket! It was glorious:) We also saw a peacock in a tree. Sister B. tried to coaxed it down with her peacock call, but it wasn’t having it.
This week I also was able to have real poutine! One of the members has a dinner called La Belle Patate, which I think is French for ‘The Beautiful Potato’, and he gives free poutine and soda…
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Dear Sister Robertson
Dear / Sister Vancouver/
My father, he loved trees
but I’m not sure he loved me quite as much
I know he loved the trees cuz twenty-something sweaty sun-baked holes got dug
a double shovel handle, hungry razor jaw,
hinged post-hole digger slammed
again again again
he pulled the earth and shook the sods
as if extracting rattler fangs
he pounded on
down down
the iron mouthbit ringing out and splitting rocks
deep deeper in the heart of Chiggerville
until the acre lot out front became a bumpy scarred up place
full of tree holes for twenty- something root balls
then while he cut and pulled the twine and burlap
he sent me off and running to turn the tough red faucet
my slippery little hands just could not grip
and so I swung and kicked my whole child self
I hung in hopes I’d budge it
long last…..I did
like magic
It hissed and sighed the breath of life
it made the heavy green snake jump beneath bare feet
it came to life
a hundred feet of twitching, pulsing, jerking, muscle
water works
Again again, my father quenched their thirst
and so, I know he loved his trees
besides, I hauled a hundred times five-gallon buckets with him
his hands were strong and calloused
the bucket handles cut my hands to blisters
And all the time, there in the shade, my brother chopped the bamboo
behind the Air Force barack, make-shift house
he worked for pennies
for nothing…..
He couldn’t stop the rooted beasts from growing
along the flood plane, the bamboo grew an inch or two each day
nothing could stop it, not even ten times ten machettes splaying
He could have worked all day and night and never gained the upper hand
I never understood this rite of boyhood or preferential treatment
and all the while the bamboo grew
and all the while my father hoped his trees would too
I think the bamboo knew …the work of growing…better than most
It was something magic
requiring patience
demanding faith
hope, vigilance
I think my father wished this magic bamboo spell upon his trees
and prayed they would take root and grow as fast
my father loved his trees this much and more
more than the bamboo in the backyard, more than the sun
he watched them every one just like a sentinel
within the moonlight
beneath the stars
beyond the fireflies and cricket chorus
he heard the dance of armadillos
the shift and shuffle of their midnight rounds
the claw and tear and gnaw of tender shoots and roots
This made him crazy
one night I saw my father leave with haste
with gritting teeth, chest pounding
he set an angry jaw and slammed the screen door shut
then left a trail of choice words through the night air
I listened through the heat but could not see or hear much
until the painful screams began to work their terror on me
a shadow of a man with claw in hand
a bloody, muscly ball of armor jumping, squeeling
a scalloped, hairy rodent trying to flee
no use.
In time the bludgeoning hammer stopped
the air was thick and still and silent and dad returned without a word
his pants were torn and garment top was bloody
His face was red with pride
and he was smiling through the blood and dirt and sweat
He loved his trees… no doubt about it…he proved it
but I’m not sure he loved me quite as much.
A decade passed.
I went to college,
partly by luck on scholarship and paid the rest
I bought a junk heap car and got my license on my own
some Saturdays I drove the fifteen miles home when not at work
he’d be there in the yard with hose in hand
tending the trees
admiring their leaves
glowering over a first pear or peach, boasting a nut yield
cracking small pecan shells
even if it was only a dozen cracks a year
I never seemed to please him in this way
Sometimes I wonder what our life would be….. if he,
if we…. had stayed on there deep in the heart of Texas
awhile on Weil, on that land and in the Ping Pong House
another wet season on Wetz; in that strange house on stilts
if dad hadn’t had the heart attack
or retired early, or moved out West to rest.
He would have seen those trees grow to maturity
in all their fruit and beauty
I know
They grew up….I saw them
three decades later on an autumn holiday
We, the trees and I, we had our own reunion
They were magnificent
I wonder what dad would have said, if he were living and thriving then and now
just like his trees
perhaps he’d hear them speak the Wisdom he was seeking
when he loved them
Somehow, somewhere…
I think he’s growing trees again and wishing he had me to help him
(random image from Google images; just playing at found poetry)
she travels wild sands
turns warrior pose
away to see a tameless mane
blown grasslands
froth and whirl
effaced salt mist
heartbeat and thunder
a tree ear pressed to the pounding ground
eyes closed
adept to hearing tangled
wild creatures netted in the surge
heart caverns home to swirling
billowing breathless
sirens
dirge of a restless
soul
Orange clove mind
mist, boxing gloves
sweaty work-out
power pose
smiles, laughter
protein, eat-clean
mountain dance
tank-top, jeans
pens and Art
Giving hands
Growing heart
to understand
My heart cries tonight at this site. A construction crew came through this week. They installed a high pressure pipe irrigation system in place of the old ditch flood system. Tonight when the rain stopped and the sun broke through, I took a walk down the fence line to look it over. That’s when reality set in. Every bit of marvelous milkweed is gone. Not a leaf or stick remains. A 150 year flood irrigation system and wetland ecosystem has been altered forever and I am heart broken. When the Monarchs return there will be nothing here for them. Nothing… unless there is milkweed growing in the riparian zone closer to the Weber River, three hundred yards away. As for me, I gifted away all the milkweed seed I had harvested. I am just so sad about this.
