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 
I love that place. sigh.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful
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.
ReplyDeleteThe 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?
This is wonderful ...
ReplyDelete