MOUNTAIN
PALM SPRINGS
In
the desert, sirocco winds
shake
the shaggy manes of palms
who
have found water,
but
cannot bend to drink.
They
graciously nod
to
the everblueness of sky.
I
have often thought sunlight on water
to
be filled with certain music;
palm
trees, signifiers of caravans;
the
word oasis to be cupped
and
treasured between the palms.
Symbols
of biblical proportions:
not
the 20th century chatter
of
Jezebels—easy dates
on
LA boulevards and shopping malls.
My
thirst seeks rare blue palms
found
deep in the canyons of Baja
where
we bathed in granite streambeds—
&
what we let go of at sea level
because
mountains weren’t enough
to
hold us up to the scrutiny of sky.
9/11/93
Walker
Creek Ranch
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