July 22, 2011

Three Sixty by Ruth Gooley

From the Overlook, I can see it all:
the scythelike bow of the Santa Monica Bay, 
the far-off crawl of Catalina Island, rain-green hills,
a red-tailed hawk, sun-bright, wings outstretched like a jet.

In thrall, I decide, again,
that this is where my ashes
will be scattered, here,
where sky, sea, mountains, city collide.

A leaf moves oddly,
against the wind.
A grasshopper or
a green butterfly, perhaps.
But when I get up to look,
I see a furry grey head
peeking up from a hole.
The animal ducks back like a bashful child,
jumps out, grabs a small thick leaf in its mouth
and retreats. 

I forget all about my ashes
and marvel at the mole.






Ruth Gooley's credentials cover a great deal of territory, from the academic (a Ph.D. in French literature from UCLA and a book entitled The Metaphor of the Kiss in French Renaissance Poetry by Peter Lang Publishing) to the more earthbound (poems published in Day Tonight Night TodayThe Loyolan and Mali Mirage and more soon to be published in Snowy Egret, Pure Francis and Poecology).

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