I loved spending time amid these poems. It was a wild ride from northwest gardens and beaches, to southwest deserts, to Africa and Wales–full of heartache and hope and, as one poem concludes, “a quiet tinkering of fire.”
Pearl, oyster, agate–desert hues–fade.
Camped in the creased arroyo,
I lie on the hood of the truck.
Stars emerge horizon to horizon,
the Pleiades a glow of light above Orion’s belt,
a meteor flashing out in death,
a satellite tumbling from its orbit, winking out a life.
When you can’t go on with someone, what then?
He left his cooler, tent, butane stove in the camp,
left this place gouged out by floods
where cacti jump toward movement,
granite traps quartz crystals.
Only the crackle of the fire
until the shriek of a hunting hawk.
By the apricot moon,
tiny desert trumpets bloom
where saber-tooth tigers once pounced on prey,
moths flutter straight into the fire.