Poems
Posted by Tom Miner, 1/1/06 at 3:43:10 PM.Solstice
Drawn outside at midnight
By the honking of geese
I peer straight up
At a gibbous moon
Out of focus
In its bruised halo,
The sky upholstered with clouds,
Scent of citrus in the air.
In the backyard,
A chill shivers the leaves
Of the grapefruit tree,
Polishing the dimpled skin
Of the bulbous fruit.
Inside, my wife and daughters
Nestle under fat quilts,
The cat curled on the couch
Like a cashew. Their warmth
Tugs at my back like a tide.
The honking now: far off
To the south. Winter twitches
Through my sinews.
Chimney Rock Trail, Point Reyes
Knee deep in wild iris, I look up,
Startling a dozen black tail deer:
How they stand at attention
In their cinnamon tuxedos,
Staring straight at me, ears cocked,
Nostrils twitching,
A perfectly rapt audience.
Above us, clouds scuff the darkening sky,
Like the lofty ceiling of La Scala.
I stand before them, still,
A conductor before an orchestra,
Without a baton.
Clear Lake
Outside, gentle rain jitters
The last leaves of the walnut
And crabapple trees, tinks
Against the window, rinses
The chill air.
I huddle close by the wood stove
Where through smoky glass
The oak shanks flare
Bright orange as the sun.
Outdoors, darkness has inked
The world away, but the grebes
Still go about their hungry business,
Diving below the freckled surface
And a minute later, popping up again.
In the soft hills behind this cottage,
The deer, under the manzanita,
Nestle in their pockets of leaves,
Dreaming of morning.
Portent
Cold wind whispers rain
Through ten thousand pines
Bruised clouds scuff the sky
While redtail hawk cocks its wings
And dives, a shred of winter in its beak.
This trail far from home
Rises before my feet;
I lean forward in reverence
Then quicken my pace.
The Trail Rises
Walking stick clacking against trail gravel,
I make my solitary way through the forest:
Moss shrouded junipers, orange toadstools,
Rock violets sprouting on granite.
The trail rises before me
Scent of licorice, trickle of stream water
Over pebbles, woodpecker’s pock-pock-pock:
I dream of leaving the city forever.
“Why?” She Asks
On the trail to Tomales Point,
I slog uphill in a cold drizzle,
Calves burning, stomach growling.
With each step the friction of my rain pants
Whispers my wife’s warm voice from home:
“Why?” she asks.
I turn a corner, look up to see
I am surrounded by a herd of tule elk
Frozen quiet, all eyes on me.
Linger
After working late, I arrive home,
The house dark, the children asleep
In their room down the hall.
Sitting on the patio, I tipple wine
While the cat climbs the moonlight
On my shoulder and settles,
Her little engine humming in my ear.
In the shadows of the backyard,
The wind grieves for a year gone by,
And plum blossoms drizzle
Onto dark grass, promising
New fruit. Above, the stars blur.
I could linger in this moment forever.
Legacy
Days and nights scatter by with so little to show:
The pages of a book blown empty by the wind.
Meanwhile our armies prowl for victims overseas,
Year after year, more bones bleaching under the desert sun.
Thanksgiving
After the elms disrobe,
The sky stretches and yawns,
The crows get busy
Packing their suitcases.
Old Round Top
Seen from afar, the lone man
On snowshoes trudging up
The mountain is a black bug
On a boundless white mirror.
As he lurches forward on his long
Overdue pilgrimage, the percussive
Music of his swollen feet
Beats the powder into a double row
Of soft pockets in his wake,
The tree line dwindles
At his back, his lungs
Mushroom with every breath.
Above him
Clouds curl over the ridge
And wisp away. He leans forward
As though bowing in reverence,
The ancient yearning drawing him
To the north of everything.