Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sandra Irwin


Kneeling on a weathered deck,
my back to a pile of damp,
deep-scented logs,
my face lifted to skyscraping pines
flowering dogwoods
and undulating rows of spiky,
green-tipped San Bernadino mountains,
I discover I’m no longer
the person I was
down the hill:
here I am
spindly fingers
of the National Forest,
dust shimmering
on shards of sunlight
onion-like skin
in petals of pine cones,
Ave Maria hummed
among hills.

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