Autumn here has tawny hues, amber and gold fused by a vast loving hand -- that hand shaped the grasslands hereabouts for cows, for the kind of people who eat acorns, who doubt the masks of interlopers.
The star thistle is a relatively recent arrival; its thorns never quite reconciled to life in these parts, like some Portuguese immigrant who made a killing in almonds or rice, but never lost his accent or the ways of the Basque.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Sites
Golden hill, round as the firm breast
of a woman on her back -- it's broken open:
a scar one-third of the way up
marks where the rust-spotted bulldozer's parked.
Reddish dirt, congealed blood of Mother Earth,
reveals sandstone and rock white as bone.
Brown cow, peer up from around the quiet
pasture, your sleek flanks glossy in the sun.
There is nothing from which to run,
merely burnished August days in a string, blended into one,
as hazy and amber-colored as Summer's end.
A buzzard flies high above, her neck bent.
of a woman on her back -- it's broken open:
a scar one-third of the way up
marks where the rust-spotted bulldozer's parked.
Reddish dirt, congealed blood of Mother Earth,
reveals sandstone and rock white as bone.
Brown cow, peer up from around the quiet
pasture, your sleek flanks glossy in the sun.
There is nothing from which to run,
merely burnished August days in a string, blended into one,
as hazy and amber-colored as Summer's end.
A buzzard flies high above, her neck bent.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)