Greenhouse Music

Darkling beetle

etching his way

out of a glass jar;

he doesn't know

he is making music

Between Mesas

Clear twilight

fills the bowl

between two mesas,

a cup of water

for the weary heart.

I love the mesas in winter; the snow highlights their hollows and planes, revealing the crevices that aren't visible in the warmer months. I spent over an hour trying to find a phrase to describe the way the sky fills the space between these ancient formations, how the parabola between them seems to offer itself like an open bowl. A woman I know once said that God is space, and having lived out here for awhile, I believe she was right.

Scouring Season

Spring is not

the growing season

but the scouring season,

when hard winds

batter the earth to bone.

Old House

House of the absent heart:

your cracked eye

holds a memory of fire.

Disappearing Roads

overgrown road

the brush has blurred you

the horizon has retaken you

now you're ready for the traveler

without a map

Our two plots of land are part of an entity known as the San Luis Valley Ranches. About 40 years ago, a real estate developer had the idea of turning this area into a subdivision. There's actually an SLV Ranches covenant, dating back to the late 1960's, that imposes various restrictions on the subdivision's homeowners. We're not allowed to live in a tipi, raise swine or start a commune out here. Although I've occasionally been intrigued by the idea of living in a tipi, I can't say I'm very interested in swine-herding or communal living.

Oh, and no houses with gray stucco. Obviously a gray stucco dwelling would clash with the aluminum or vinyl siding on the rare mobile home or RV that dots the landscape.

In fact, there are few residential structures on the Flats. The developer's dream was never realized. Apparently some of these plots have been purchased, but few people actually settled here. The winds are too fierce, the winters too cold. There's no electricity, no natural gas, and the geographical barriers imposed by the mountains tend to separate the Valley's residents from the rest of the world. As a result, the Flats are crisscrossed by dozens of roads, which are marked by hand-painted street signs. Road graders pass through the area every few weeks, but they only grade the roads that are commonly used. The roads that have no inhabitants and no steady traffic are left to grow over, returned to the rabbitbrush, prickly pear and sage.

Happy New Year

dawn leafs the mountains

as if the stone were paper

as I watch the sun

candle the ancient granite

the luminous pages close

Stones Speak

lava speaks of the rage

of the mountain’s birth

while the seamed granite

speaks of the silence

that followed

I love the Native American idea that stones speak, that they instruct us through their ancient intimacy with the earth. I spend a lot of time hunting for rocks, studying them, trying to listen to them. Rocks are great conversationalists. They're imposing without being condescending, informative without being overbearing, quietly witty without trying to force their charm on the listener.

They bear the marks of unimaginable heat and aeons of wind. Here in the San Luis Valley, which once held a large lake, many rocks also show the softly persistent wear of water. The stones speak of silence, patience and immutable resistance to the elements. Their seams and fissures are like mute mouths; their pock marks are like the scars on a well worn face.

Granite Man

Granite man

lost the urge to be herded

takes shelter in a tin trailer

buries his bottles

sleeps with a gun.

No one has lived in this trailer for years, but I'm fascinated by its nonexistent inhabitant, whom I picture as a grizzled misanthrope. The dogs love to wander around on this property, which was once someone's unauthorized junkyard. There's still a corral and some old sheep sheds to the west of the trailer. Blanca towers over the abandoned trailer, turning this tiny shelter into a thimble.

Gems from the Road

I once dyed my hair

the rich red of a bloodstone

now the roots are gray

and I dig gems from the road --

quartz, obsidian and granite.

Blood Sky

Along the dark cloud path

a lifetime sentence begins

as a dead man's blood

rises to the horizon

to paint the sinking sky

Today is the anniversary of a murder that I can't seem to forget. I didn't know anyone involved in the crime, but the circumstances haunt me. Memories of my own mistakes, the rancid emotions and overblown fears. After the murderer was sentenced a couple of months ago, we had a series of flawless sunsets in the Valley, absolutely cloudless, with yellow gradients giving way to blue, and I felt that in some way, these skies held a gift of serenity for the man who died so violently.