Spawning dreams.

These rhythms and
rocks are self evident, been here before any of us remember.
But these grasses came as migratory winds of life, with our plows and our boats.
And groves? The old ones became fences and houses; shelter,fuel and boats to survive on these shores.

All compliantly working together now, trees and rocks and grasses, and
a super-ordinary channel
built to contain the enthusiastic orgy of
winter rains and ocean tides
determined to regulate time and space, runoffs and upsurges
to spare property damage and maybe, as good measure,
lure ocean-fatted fish pre-disposed to spawn on these rocky
shores.

This is the rhythm of modern Adams and Eves
mediated, medicated, articulated in visionary terms
like advertising slogans;
wild species all
contained in channels built by corporate dreams
translated for public consumption
dressed in comfort and joy
from January to December
from sea to shining sea
importing grasses and dog food from cheaper shores.

And the fish? They swim in and out of this channel, until tired and old
and longing for rest and validation
after a lifetime of
mutations and escape games
mastered on foreign soils. Then,
craving those old
smells and tastes of youthful vigor
they return to spawn their last dream on these shores.

By the time we return to  our cradles
to the apple pie and Mother's sauce
we're too blind  to notice how many trees were felled for our comfort
how many rivers dammed to feed our cattle.
Like the salmon, we'll swim upstream to keep our dream,
to be counted among the species living on these blessed shores.





(Still in progress...

Stepping

When I  stepped on sand and made my way
lightly down the shoreline
avoiding the rushing
waves
and occasional carcasses of  beached animal
gingerly holding
the enormity
of the element that sorrounded me
lulled into forgetfulness
by the wind and the sound
and the smell of ocean,
I could have accepted death with joy
if not for the hand that held the camera that day.

You need to see the colors of their eyes.

Freedom Hall, Boston, Massachusetts, USA.

In pews arranged in a square
neighbors face each other
all smelling of the day's hard work
and last meal.
farmer,teacher
preacher,farrier
father, brother
listening
waiting to respond.


Newcomers all, they
agree on only one thing,
one purpose to stop the work
and spend time talking.

This new world must be better
than the old. They've come too far
to go back now.

They know what's at stake as they
gauge each other's mood by tiny gestures.

I wonder who chose to sit where.

And did they discuss women and small children at these meetings?
Did they not know how to read women's tiny gestures?

At the edge of the day...

First, you notice the broken concrete
weighing down
the color green
hoping to blend with water
as clouds flirt with winged fishes
and hide behind their true form
catching each other briefly
for the moment that
the eye of god winks
at the sun.

Autumn rushes.

I go down to the garden between bouts of rain with tools and plans
all assembled in the wagon, ready for
this and that
but just pushing
that wagon is enough to
tire arms and legs and disposition.

I'm not going to get much done today.

The flight of birds and kites over the lake put me in a trance
about youth and ambition and plans for a lifetime
places to get to, things to build
refurbish that bathroom, submit that play.

Nobody else expects me to finish anything.

So long ambition, I cry out to the wind that masks all human voices these days.
So long plans for a new shed, as the space that shed would require
contains buried asparagus roots, waiting for long seasons
of wind and water to coax its tender tendrils.

How can anyone expect to finish anything with this kind of weather?

But the planting, the weeding, the piling of leaves need to happen
before the rains, the winds.
I must tie the roses and the young trees so the winds
don't tear them out of the soil, destroy their ambition
to live another season waiting for the sun.

A sudden squall sends me back indoors before tools are gathered and put away.