Wednesday, January 2, 2013
In The Sag Pond Woods
( Solstice, December 2012)
Mud lathers our leather boots
as we shadow the trail. No snow
just a wild garden of sage grass
and grouse on each side.
Some birds take flight
rattling the field, unerving us
with the dark shudder of van Gogh.
The path turns -- and more scenery
by the Dutchman. Remains of an orchard
where twisted trees
attempt to arbor the hill.
We rest beneath their branches
chilled, cloistered by this scent
of apples sweetening the wind,
a ghost harvest
prevalent on this day
of shortest days
when the ancient clock
predicts our ruin. Does it matter?
The sun pales then polishes the sky
with a gold finish.
You make use of a flat stone
scraping dirt off your heels
while I use a stick
casting wet earth
to earth, remembering
we are more than clay
joined under this withered arch,
this gateway to Winter.
Note -- A sag pond ( referring in the poem to Lake Elizabeth in the high desert region of Southern California), is a body of water occupying an enclosed depression formed where active fault movement during an earthquake has impounded drainage.