The morning brings a bright false spring. I swerve, angrily yell at the older man and two women stuffed into the cab of a late model dodge, my truck is held captive as they dawdle down the road. They turn off at the cemetery and I am kin to their sorrow and the joy of the day. The essence of early spring, promises of new renewal and with this little brush with death, I am reminded of my own grandmother, my uncles at Holy Cross Cemetery, an acropolis so large, one needs to consult a road map to find kin. Lee Evans says she still wants to pick up the phone to call her father and I must admit I have the same urges. I confess MaBell could make a fortune. The energy to write a poem is so fragile that you begin by blowing on embers to start a flame, but if you fan too hard or in the wrong place there is no fire, no flame, just the urge to create something that never materialized, leaving a vacuous feeling in the brain. The mountains’ hard silhouette, a knife the throat of the sky, blooming mustard so yellow the sun drowns in the Valley of the Moon.
2/18/1988
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