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This poem is from Tidal, Pine Row Press, 2024
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One morning, a silent
blanket of beige fog hangs over the bay
like a chemical leak. Maybe we should go into town—
take weeks of accumulated garbage,
overdue library books, restless kids? Car loaded, windows cracked to lighten
the smell, Joe waves us down the lane.
Ninety kilometers, twenty-three books later, waste dumped, groceries bought,
sun burns through the haze,
we pick up a hitcher along the way. Spanish guitar on the radio,
my hair blows wildly in the hot air.
Fields flash by, the meadows scorched golden. Jessie and David read nature books to the
back-packer and she tells them the blue butterfly
reminds her of the Sea of Cortez in mid-day sun. |
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