On the way to Yosemite, November

We arrive in El Portal, 

just outside of Yosemite, 
after driving on highway 140 

through squares of apple orchards, 

small vineyards, 
a few pumpkin patches, 

wide flush meadows of gold 

until that unbending, solid highway 

finally curves up into the Sierras, 

into its shadows of ash and black 

that droop across the road 

and across trees of blood orange 
and lemon (but many holding on fiercely 
to their green),

some bringing to mind the lace 

my mother sewed on dresses, 

and others call up flocks 
of yellow butterflies,

as the road ribbons higher into the hills, 

narrowing and curving, sometimes 
very sharply, unstoppable as the Merced river, 

dry in places, its smooth bowels 

exposed and assailable, 

and in other places the water depthless,

and in others gurgling, until finally 

the sun slumps behind the ridges

and the Yosemite View Lodge shines 

before us like a galaxy. 

What old men do

Now my husband reminds me 

of my father. It may be all men 

resemble my father 

when their vital organs wane. 

It may be they all sit for hours

in oversized chairs to read the paper, 

and scold about the wrong turn 
the world has taken

since they were young and quick. 

It may be they all sink 
into long naps

while watching TV mobsters 

and large game 
chow each other down. 

It may be they all 

make grocery shopping 

the high spot of their days, 

and yet each morning, shave, 
fuss with their hair, pat on racy cologne 

and dress to kill.

Under my feet

San Leandro Creek early this morning, 

so still, unmoving, only a shudder or two from frozen. 

Under my feet, points of light twinkle 

from the deep litter of dead leaves, each light 

a leap off a frosted drop sparkling like a star,

adding brilliance to a damp and dark 

forrest floor littered with corpses, 

but how they lie lovely in their graves, 

greens and yellows faded or completely gone, 

but at least they have me, a grateful woman

for this carpet of gold and brown 

under my feet where I spot a fresh leaf, 

still yellow, others gold or dull green, or grey
as if born at the last minute 

then dropped from the exhausted arms 

of these old trees. Just beyond I see

pure brown earth from which swollen roots bulge 

silent and battered as if they popped 

out of the ground in a plunge for air.

I can’t take my eyes off that sad disarray

of skins cast off  by the eucalyptus trees, 

as if in a rage about the shortness of everything 

they are tearing off their clothes.  

I find a long thin branch on the ground. 

It serves well as a walking stick to steady me 

up the slippery slope where my car waits. 

Just one last look around before I go. 

I'm pleased that all this winter dead-- 

its silence and bareness, its sharp chill--

doesn't carry me off to melancholy,

instead takes my hand and squeezes it.

The view one recent morning

It rained lightly this morning. 

A rare thing around here. 

A good time to visit the wood  nearby. 

Inhale its air, clotted with wild scents. 

A redwood stump 7 feet tall, 
wide and dark as a bear, stands alone, 
wounded, beside the path. 
What whacked its crown off in its prime?  

A bird quacks hysterically in the branches. 

Why this racket? 

Some quarrel over a nest or meal no doubt. 

A plane roars past overhead. Who is looking down from those tiny windows?
Are they worried?

Some little leaves holler

Yellow! Yellow! We are yellow! 

Under my feet, a wet carpet of wood chips. 

So soft, my boots sink lower and lower. 

Trees large and small, some bare, some thick with needles, 

bend over the San Leandro Creek and across my path. 

What chooses which way they'll bow, when they'll grow 

tall, when they'll give up and fall? 

The creek lays still and dark as a graveyard. 

Tiny winged creatures leap in and out of the creek, 

some swim in circles, bumping leaves that just float, 
accepting whatever comes. 

Suddenly the sun slices through the cloud. 

I feel as if I've been standing alone 

in a dark temple 

and all the lights have just gone on 

and people are streaming in. 

Awake now, I turn back to my car. 

One thing I think about on Thanksgiving

Sue pressed on a bottle cap protruding from a hole in her throat. 
It was her turn to tell why she joined my “writing for beginners” group at the San Leandro library. 
It took several presses of the cap to explain that since her tracheotomy, speaking was very difficult. 
Being a person who loved to communicate,
I decided I better learn to write. 

But Sue panicked when she heard the library 
would publish our Thanksgiving Day stories. 
I don't know where to begin, she wheezed.
I don’t want to embarrass my children.

Sue settled on the topic of her mother’s old oak table. 
She wrote about how in the weeks before Thanksgiving, 
her mother pulled off the plastic table cloth and polished the table 
from the top to its claw feet. 
A week before the meal, she set the table for eight, sometimes squeezing 
ten around it. 

For decades, her family assembled at this table for a traditional turkey dinner, 
every year losing and gaining family members as they passed or moved away and spouses and grandchildren took their places. 

When Sue’s mother died, Sue brought the table to her own home
and continued the ritual of polishing and setting in exactly the same way.  
The work summoned memories that made her sink into the nearest chair. 
Every plate Sue set, every candle she unwrapped, brought to mind 
scenes from her childhood, from her children's childhood, 
and now from her grandchildren’s childhood. 
She felt the gentle presence of spirits hovering around the table, 
especially her mother's, always there at my elbow, checking my work. 

When Sue died four years later, her daughter invited me 
to a memorial service at the Oakland Hilton. 
In the hallway, I spotted clawed feet 
beneath a white tablecloth with framed family photos. 
In the center stood a double-paned silver frame 
holding Sue’s story, The Table. 

When he is diagnosed, he calls to tell me

Bill

Died November 20, 2006

 

Ok let’s cut right to the chase, my friend says.

I have lung cancer.  

Right then, ants skitter across my skin in all directions. 

We wait a a long time for me 

to speak but the ants eat my words. 

Finally some words escape, something

about God and disbelief.

But I’m not going for chemo and all that shit. 

I’m going for alternatives.

 

Faith performs miracles, I say and mean it

because I have seen it bend reality.  

After all, thoughts can raise and lower

body temperature and once 

I saw a man walk on burning coals. 

If anyone can do this, it is you Bill.

An unfamiliar road

From time to time, driving in the country, 
I'm struck by a disturbing image of an unfamiliar road.
A straight two-lane highway lined for miles 
by rows of tall trees, 
the trunks lean and nutty, bare up to the middle, 
then bushy with leaves thick and green, each tree 
identically tall, their pointy crowns aimed at the sun. 
I may or may not be alone in the car 
but I'm always alone on the unfamiliar road when
it suddenly seems familiar. 
I tell myself, Ah, here it is again. 
I don't know where I’m going or coming from 
on that unfamiliar road but each time I think I’m
on it, my heart starts drumming, something 
whispers, Look, you will die here
and in a flash I watch my car plunge deep into the arms
of these tall, straight trees.
On a drive to Mount Lassen, the road 
suddenly took the shape of the unfamiliar one.
This is the road! 
I slowed the car, turned off the radio.
But looking again, Maybe not. 
These trees have needles. 
No leaves. No slim brown trunks. 
So I relaxed. 
Once along Highway One 
between Stinson Beach and Point Reyes, 
I came upon an unfamiliar road that too began 
to look familiar. 
I pushed on the brake, 
tightened my grip on the wheel. 
No, look, look! This road curves, it bends. 
It’s not the unfamiliar road, 
which is very straight and very flat. 
There’s a road I drive often along Lake Chabot. 
It’s lined with many kinds of trees, all of them
the wrong trees, and the road has sharp curves, 
so I know it isn’t the one. 
I try not to think about that road. 
They say we give ourselves permission to die 
a certain way 
and then wander into that death
like a sleepwalker.