March 4, 2013

On the Porch at the Cabin by Ruth Gooley


A graying crack of railing,
a spider web ablossom with pollen
and the remains of a white butterfly,
the stream that cut Cold Canyon
from the granite spill of the hills,
its winter swell, the summer silence
of its red-legged frogs,
the scent of aging grass,
the laurel tree
whose leaves flower my lentil soup,
the bees whose honey drips
through the roar of the hive,
the dwarf-like fruit on my apple tree,
the slope of the hill,
the stump of the fallen oak,
rotting and rich with microscopic breath,
the black peel of the rock by the porch.
The baby rattlesnake under the shed,
the orange blossoms of the Mariposa lily
devoured by a green dangle of worms,
the black phoebe nesting amid the pansies
until the hawk carries her off.

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