has issued a challenge to write every day in April. I have accepted the challenge, and commit to fill the pages of this new journal with all-new material on the theme of vision, working just a little bit each day.
I can’t wait.
The practice will be good. I need to stay sharp. I start my MFA program this fall, in Arizona. Exciting times.
All February we’ve been eying this sunshine warily–
you’re lovely, we all stipulate,
but what does this undeserved balminess portend?
We’ve suffered through no serious winter:
just enjoyed our oranges and lemons on perfect Saturday afternoons,
in backyards and on patios since late January,
Tasting uneasiness in the sour of our citrus:
there hasn’t been enough rain,
(even those of us who don’t garden, who don’t farm)
and, when is it coming?
We’re all thinking,
when it rains, it pours,
and do all these sunny daffodils
and sassy quince blossoms
decorating the whole of February
mean that we’re in for some kind of monster
My first reading. January 5, 2012 at the Natsoulas Gallery in Davis.
The tortoise is what I aspire to.
I am no tortoise.
I think of the lizards us kids would stalk and chase
and hunt, not to kill, but to capture: live.
To keep as a pet in a shoebox with some sand.
Sometimes on those desert hikes
you come across the ghostly scales shed:
curved, in the shape of a snake,
or the tail and maybe part of a leg of some friendlier
(in sidewinder and scorpion territory you fear no lizard)
I enjoy sunning myself on a flat rock,
feeling that warmth in my cold blood.
I flick my tongue to taste the air
for water, for danger
And I know when it is time
to shed my present skin of scales, to leave that
ghostly impression of me somewhere on a desert floor.