West
New shoots out of the logging road,
cool gauze of cumulus to sooth the deep river gorge,
even the picnic tables warped by rain and eaten by termites
to heal the part we cut away: to smell wood smoke is ambrosia.
It is ambrosia to listen to the small voice speak again.
In the north, thunder heralds heavy rain.
A crow lifts itself up sullenly and slogs towards shelter:
a play of greys and greens: to think and to feel.
A chipmunk grasps his acorn like a little treasure: he is so happy
his cheeks are bursting: the air is thick with good scents to smell
and there is time to smell them all and for leaves to turn in the rain,
for the oldest trees to fall, and the others, stunted in shadow, to emerge.
There's room for the picnic lodge and the mushrooms under the doorstep.
It is ambrosia to breathe and to grow.
A car drives by, headlights on. The crunch of wheels on gravel
and the heater's low warm din lull the children asleep in the back seat.
A coyote crosses over to the other side, his eye bright with hunger.
There's time for smoke to rise from the cooking fire.
It is ambrosia to look and to see.
from my book Meteorology (BOA Editions)
All text and images on this site © by Alpay Ulku