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
