Archive for April 26th, 2015

Tread softly.

You might crush a dandylion

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or daisies neither white nor red;

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flower heads that float above the weeds,

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or mayapples

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swarming everywhere,

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or just some ordinary

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inconsequential

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greenweeds;

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lichens working at the crack,

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a violet,

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something butter gold,

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or during their brief ascendency

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more mayapples on the march.

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Turning a new leaf.

You’d think a thousand shades of green

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would  be enough for all new leaves.

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But some species will not begin that way

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and some will never turn.

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It’s a lifestyle choice,

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from once upon a time.

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Yet for leaves the brontosaurus gazed and grazed on,
gentle giant just last week recovered from oblivion,

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green is good enough.

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Mission Campus.

From the tenth and tallest floor of the St. Joseph tower,
through a narrow glass hard-glazed in cement,

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looking west to the mountains across the northern edge

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of the main Mission Campus

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and down into the lots for the tonka cars and trucks,

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the spring clouds sweep the distant peaks.

The days are long, the nights are longer;
food is the only fun, except not much.
Discharge, like the rapture, frees.

Incidental images: all fall down.

Under the wire of a fallen fence

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rests a hunk of smoky quartz,
probably with emeralds or rubies in the matrix.

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The main road up the mountain was blocked for months
when several trees pulled each other down
and the smashed tops smash-wove an impenetrable snarl.
It took a neighbor’s trackhoe’s loader to pull the knot apart
after all the trunks were cut.

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But falling doesn’t mean wood’s work or use is done;
it becomes host to a host.

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Shallow roots too near the branch shall be undercut
and rise to become fresh habitat:
law of the forest.

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Still genuine American chestnut.
We got many boards from the fallen trees;
but forty years on, only crumbly chunks remain.

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A couple days of rain, and the Little Sandy Mush Bald Branch
sends its forest-filtered fresh waters streaming down through Hot Springs

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More and more it looks as if the ground
chews the old convenience from underneath.

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Though grave diggers toil is long,
sharp their spades, their muscles strong,

they but thrust their buried men
back into the human mind again.
(says uncle William)