Tuesday, May 12, 2015


Wind Poppies, Tarweed

I found a clearing on a ridge between two streams. 
Gazing at the canyon far below, I glimpsed
the Native American site next to the river
near the washed out bridge. I hiked a path

down to a stream and stood still
next to water threading down the stone 
even during drought. Wind poppies mingled
with Chinese houses and tarweed in the shade

Wind Poppy

of an embankment. As a boy I never noticed
flowers or birds, never discovered a path 
next to a stream meandering down the hillside, 
never found a pounding stone. Back then,

a strange voice claimed that I’d find something
Native American near the river. The same voice said 
I’d return years later to the foundation of a house 
in the river bottom. Since then, I’ve found village sites 

in the watershed and unexpectedly returned 
to the foundation, but in that clearing I was not hearing 
the mysterious voice. I was not feeling like a boy again. 
I was not finding artifacts or experiencing great insights. 

Wind Poppies, Chinese Houses, Tarweed

Ravished by the flowers, I simply stopped worrying.
Past and future vanished in the breeze and heat, 
the gurgling water sliding down slick, mossy rock. 
I found a small, secluded Eden with the last 

wind poppies and Chinese houses and tarweed
and lazuli buntings. Let me take you there.