Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Diablo

in creosote smell
late winter sun


my hometown;  the beginning
soft over hard
on men and women
who have always eaten well, so
surprised at their reflections
twenty years too old


this is a place of small
valleys and wild flowers
they are always planting
more red grapes for wine
there is a power plant
just down the road


old songs on the radio I have
no answer for this yearning
to be what never was
some time ago
the answer is: the end
we all get there


it is four years since Fukushima
but there is nothing wrong 
in California
wild flowers 
blue yellow orange
and long grass

horses in the fields
the whole way home

3 comments:

  1. Diablo is the bookend--the beginning and the end of the poem. Diablo is as invisible as any yearning, and as benign and disastrous. It can't be seen, is literally not part of the landscape.
    The adult living in the hometown doesn't yearn in the same way. The memories of childhood become those of our children. First loves and awkward embraces are lost in the strands of a fifteen year marriage. Two houses, the bank. Groceries. The radio songs remind me of Ireland, a continent away. But never here. Now Diablo is a good paycheck. Disaster is a fire drill, a clipboard and a checklist. Tick the boxes.
    But remember the Diablo of childhood? Taping up the gym doors, loading buses and jumping through the emergency doors. Preparing for disaster, protesting, taking seriously. The beginning.
    You can't see that little valley. The ocean and wildflowers are beautiful. Are they planting more grapes?

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