by Dana Wilde

the wind riffling dead grass
   waves in the blue water
   brown leaves hanging from bushes
   milkweed feathers:
the last exhalation of life, this time.

the wind bruises my nose
   the water beats a sailboat toward the beach
   oak leaves run like little kids in droves
   bright red berries falling off bare branches:
it turns & takes its last look at the cottage.

we used to hunt in these woods.
   we stepped on brittle twigs,
   we brushed through pine needles,
   we saw squirrels with their mouths full of acorns.
we teetered on the edge of winter with the bare poplars.

the cold clear air shows up the northern cross
   pindrifts in the sky, a bright one, Vega
   half the moon dumping light into the sea
   Orion’s belt & another bright one, Sirius:
the late illumination of the sky this time.

thirteen geese in a chevron
   a gang of seagulls
   a chickadee among some naked branches
   four crows circling over a grove of pines
the last southern sunlight stuns their wings.

a black & red wool jacket
   heavy socks and gloves
   a sweater in the shade, a shirt for sunlight
   hats & freezing ears:
turn, turn, turn,   change or fade, adjust or die; adjust.

by Bruce Holsapple

Walked a scrawny trail thru
the grass & trees east
from Carizzozo Canyon
searching for Grapevine Spring
a beguiling name, given
the scant rainfall here —
& to learn why that watershed
pours north rather than west,
like related dry washes do

As I hiked the brush deepened
fought a way out, twigs snapping}
my face, sweat in my eyes
stumble forward, gain ground,
but it’s a whole lot of work
to look where it is
you’re headed

or for that matter
where you’ve been —

spot the lighter green
of cottonwoods, so there’s the spring
no grapevines to be seen
scuffle about, hoping to strike
a trail that goes
up & thru the mountains
the possibilities of self–definition renewed

*
Hillsides, rock outcrop, cactus
who knows what you’ll see
atop this particular rise
(probably another peak to climb
just out of view — )
a landscape inhabited
“one step at a time”
there’s always further to go
one more chore

Why’d it take me this long
to figure that? O because youth
has no obligations
save what’s imposed
no inborn need to carry thru
There’s what you get away with
then get carried away with

*
Or stumbling up a rocky mountainside
almost ankle deep in stone, tufts of grass
still brown, although the rainy season’s started
sky overcast, the temperature
a dry 80 degrees
not easy or beautiful
but a heightened state for sure!
follow a wayward arroyo
see where the elk & deer go
how the trees spread
depending on drainage
feel the depth, wherever it lets you in
Wind swirling thru here a thousand years
find myself riveted
tracing the changes back
discover the flow of the land
the watershed & view

by Bruce Holsapple

Sandy mountain road, twisting high
thru pine & jumper, into that saddle
where the peaks divide, rocky gullies start
hers, his, that rockslide or this,
golden sweet grass sky blue cloud
get preoccupied by deer tracks

Study the ground, walk penitent
No, remind yourself how solid earth
nothing manufactured, exert
yourself, climb, get it behind
There are stories, much more weird
I mean by respectable folks

& it’s not outlandish to think
love might induce love, tho it did not
& that hurt & I was confused

Wind flowing thru the ponderosas
pushing boughs, whirling needles
distant wash of sound
long waves of it, pulse & throb
stretches of green, of gray

I know you didn’t ask but
I’ve said it many times
you didn’t have a brain in your head
falling for that girl
There’s no way, nothing
& did it despite all
you’d think a man his age
would reach the conclusion
well, maybe he’s seen pictures
knows what everybody knows
a girl like that
clutching at the closest green twig
it only makes you feel older!
how you wilt & fade
nothing actually to grasp
save that conclusion

love is fickle, willy nilly
a force that seizes you by the throat
blows you up
lets you float awhile
then tosses you aside, used, why

Well, that’s not exactly true
& he didn’t do anything
you wouldn’t have, in his shoes
a mismatch okay but
only because of vulnerability

A lonely weekend, I guess

I never did have a SEXUAL relation
that didn’t involve intense pain
pain so intertwined with joy
you can’t tear them apart
“love & happiness” my ass

You have my skin
says Bodhidharma

Okay, but that doesn’t
resolve anything
you also have my heart
twisting tight inside
& the long wind as evidence

Sooo, the wind says, Soooooooo

you’d think you’d known better
confess I thought I did

by Kristin Agudelo

I once met a snake with a brown paper tongue
grocery bag full of meanings,
not all of them sound.

He slipped up beside me,
hissing love poems so fragile
they weren’t there at all.

His silence punctured the buzzing of thought.
Mind–rattle stilled,
I shed my ill–worn self.

After a time, he grew familiar,
entwined in my hair,
tickle of parseltongue in my ear.

He rode me like a chariot,
and when presented with a forked path,
I took them both.

After eons,
I arrived at the center from two different directions
and found him there again, biting his own tail.