Dear John
- for John Spivey
I think of you often
when I see our mountains
in crisp morning air
in golden afternoons’
last light, turning cold
when the sun goes
down behind your range
I wish
you were here to be
nurtured by the sight
as I am, could be here
to receive their praise,
bear witness to the love
in your heart. I think
of our other dear John
who lives up in their
crevices, marking his time
with words. I think of
dear Bill, who fishes
their granite pools, and Mike
who has hiked their spine
many times. I think
of the heart of my heart
who drew my eyes to knobs
and clefts, gave them names
and stories to match. I think
of all the love they’ve made
amongst our citizens, this county’s
generations of adventurers, pikes,
cowmen, fighters, ramblers, thieves
converted
in their honor, bound
to their magnitude
and magnificence. But John
there’s something I need you
to know: there’s no
snow up there, John, not
one flake and here
it is December already and
any that’s fallen has
melted away, already sunk deep
in Terminus. You can see
every edge clear from here
at Mt. Whitney Mini-Storage, the tops
of trees sharp as teeth
on a handsaw’s blade, blues and grays
distinct, no mistaking
ground for sky. So John
tell all your friends who drink
the Sacramento to go
easy this year
we might have to share.
December 2, 2007
LIGHT SHOW
Homer’s Nose is glistening
in this December light
no powder to deflect
the early morning rays
glancing off its shiny tip
granite polished by years
of hanging out
in snow
and wind
which is quiet right now
leaving the sun’s heat
where it hits
the street trees’ leaves
concrete not in shadow
south-facing roofs of houses
the curtained windows
of Lindsay Gardens
where inside there are noses
on snowy heads
in need of the sun
and wind
fresh air
and a kiss.
-Trudy Wischemann