LETTER TO A POET FRIEND
All too well we know the curse
of words, its blind-flailing reach
for the sound and sense
we must make into a song.
Mother remembers the ways
of women to my wife, as told to her
by my father’s mother: how it was
to be there ever-ready for the
six-week harvest of grapes,
just before a month of picking
and packing oranges if they
didn’t freeze. Smudge pots
and wind machines, up all
night to the propellers’ roar
stirring air, smell of diesel
fueling flaming helmets
of the roadside sentries
guarding fruit. Dark weeks
of soot eclipsed the sky,
snuck into the house to turn
every child dirty overnight, to
settle in the canyons of our ears
and damp noses, to collect in
the corners of our eyes.
It could be worse. It could be hard
ground on the end of a shovel, or
the slapping sound of hand-stacking
rail cars full of splintery grape lugs –
the random hum and rhythm
of certain words on your breath
that always seemed to help
get the hard work done.