L'aura del Campo

31st of June

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          SUMMER: 8 Rahmat (31 June)          

Think rain !

The heat and the dry are getting to me. Can you tell?

Weather where I am: 84º and hot this morning.
Weather where you are: gotta be better!

Robin just lost a tooth. He looks better without it. Says that now he doesn't have to worry when he's ... well lets just say it would be TMI for me to complete the phrase . Of course, I was the one who banged my head against it giving him a hug ...

Jack will be getting a puppy, a lab mix, on Monday. So ... I'll be living with a cat and a dog.

I'm reading Joy Harjo. Her poems are getting under my skin: "he told me his name was sitting bull"; "She Had Some Horses"; The Woman Hanging from the Thirteenth Floor"; "I Give You Back". The last haunts me ...

Harjo knows how to end a poem.

IMAGES

To Alvamar:

Elderberry flowerhead; juniper berries; day lilies; weed -free grass (not grass-free weed); cicadas unseen; grape vine in the pine, behind the road named Medinah; a culvert, a creek, little water; at the entry to the heights of Alvamar: spider clinging to the weep of honeysuckle; a crescent moon from afar.

Call to mom from the bus

The telephone rings and you answer
in the same voice that after fifty years
still calls me your child.

The bus is too loud.
Do you speak of Bella
my sister's granddaughter?
or of Bella Coola
on Vancouver Island?

Both are beyond the reach of your voice
like secrets of my childhood
you feign to forget. [163.212]

Note: Isabella is known as Bella and my sis and her husband are really off to Bella Coola, so I just wove it all together .

Richard Hugo the Montanan died in 1982. I'm slowly working my way through the 400 page collection of his works. Lots of 'letters' and prose poems. So ... I figured he wouldn't mind if I dropped him a note.

Short note to Hugo from this side of the grave

Yes, Dick, I know that you're dead,
but you're due for a letter, and I
should've wrote but instead I was
living this lie, trying to be someone
I wasn't. It's dying each day
to the lies of the living
that's killing me worm by inch-worm.

You could've warned me that to be dead
was no worse than refusing to thrive,
my dread of being human, my fear
of not being human enough,
keeping me from feeling alive. [163.213]