CLEARING THE CACTUS
I had no garden when I first came to this spot
behind the knoll the natives claimed, echoing
beneath horses hooves still – just wild oats
to the windowsills of the faded double-wide
I bought from a Sacramento bank and moved
along a game trail between two canyons
that only run water in a downpour. Offspring
of the two huge rattlesnakes, first night here,
still find their way back, following something
I feel too, clearing the cactus I planted then.
A coming home, shovel and pitchfork work
towards a different place to rest my eyes.
My flesh is drawn into the damp soil,
producing visions, different versions of future
fruit - sweet gloamings shared on a new stage.