Wind Dial

(As seen in the Santa Barbara Independent 11/20/08)
http://www.independent.com/news/2008/nov/14/voices-evacuated-tea-fire/
http://www.independent.com/news/2008/nov/26/three-poems-about-tea-fire/

Somewhere, in the thickness of sleep
I hear seagulls, calling back to the ocean

When I awake the sun is rising
out of ash, glowing muted
in the density of morning

Still cool from sleep, the sky
is ready to burn, blowing softly
through the window, bringing
the fragrant smell of wood

And houses
turned to dust, returned
to the ground, what remains
a chimney, brick
a steering wheel, steel
and a statue of four bodies
a circle of stone

An aloe plant still in the pot
standing at the driveway
columns leading to an empty lot
the ash on the ground
a layer lighter than snow

And an iron wind dial
still turning on the roof
of my house, spared

People start returning
home today if they can
eyes like the reservoirs, dry

Mestec Kralove

a poem from another time, another place

The heavy rain makes blossoms
fall from the train
heavy from the center
they catch all they can
then detach as graceful
as any
separation can be

White half shells, soft, pooled
like wet saucers on the cobblestones
and a rainbow umbrella passes
unawares

The old man in a modern newsboy
cap notices and nods
and the petals continue to fall
the newness of spring thick
around my ankles
dancing downwards
from my shoulders

Inside my leather bag a lake ripples
like someone getting into a bath
the color the clearest blue like
the eyes of school boys,
my school boys

And the ink begins to swim
black turned purple and watercolors
scraps of paper, almost brown
that my grandma sees as unfit
for stationary

There’s a star in this town that’s 6 pointed
it rests between the 6 and the 12, stationary