Wednesday, June 25, 2008

No pastels

Fire danger
here the forest is closed
too dry
but sooo much cooler than the desert floor
No pastels, no watercolors in the forest this year.
the greens are strong, ragged, angry
The browns aggressive, dry, rich
golden grasses await tinder, spark
Still there are flowers
Red, orange, purple all wild and strong
but no pastels in this forest.
Even laying on a stone table
waiting for the last steppers to fade up the path
looking at the clouds
someone is stirring them with a big wooden spoon
they flow toward one another, across one another, can't make up their minds.
No pastels in this forest, even the mole hills in grey dry dust are too harsh
for the gentle paintbrush
The light offers too much contrast for any camera to catch a tree that is not a dark silhouette against the mountainside.
Smell this day,
too touched with life
to be a pastel.

Photo courtesy of a friend

who understands


Friday, June 20, 2008


Touching, reaching searching
in the forest of never
where if you don't take a leap, dreams fall away to the wayside
but it's so hard, so risky, so reckless
to stretch for the dream, the writing, the heart,
when there is a house
a mortgage,
three boys,
What happened to me?
an echo.