Monday, May 21, 2012

Lost? Or is it just the madness of the eclipse...?

Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz)
caught these shadows of poplar leaves
on the side of his Foothill Farms house
during yesterday's eclipse of the sun.

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Just for this moment, the lawn
is laced with crescent sunbeams.
Ever-diminishing light filtered through
oak trees on our sunset side. 
Don't look directly at the sun, they
warn. Even so, it's like wearing dark
glasses—the sun allows us
only so much light
in a human life, if we wish to
go on seeing.
My lawn is littered
with crescent-fragments of sun, just
for this moment
of annular eclipse that won't come
again, I guess, in my life-
time. I'm on my lawn
trying to capture glimmer-gold
fragments on grass. My own shadow
keeps coming between.

—Taylor Graham

Where is that sleeve of land unfastening
into water? Searching for you,
I listen for the sound of falls, but today

it's dust and we're forever thirsty.
Five vultures cruise the geologic tilt, dizzy
views over canyon. Water forms

everything. Pines grow unthrifty here
beyond their range, where logging trucks
rust with choker chains in rattle-coils.

The dirt road holds aging footprints.
Where did you go? I trip on
my own shadow. Water is the mystery.


—Taylor Graham

The night's loom
about to unravel, room
by room as we dream the dark—
mirror-sparkle midnight bloom:

warp and woof,
woven threads to bind a roof,
foursquare walls around, above.
Shuffle of white horse's hoof

as dream fades
into sleep. Purples and jades
of Memory, spring fleece spun fine
as Design sharpens her blades.

(Rannaicheacht Ghairid Irish form)


—Photo by Katy Brown

—Katy Brown, Davis

If you chase winter far enough up the mountain,
running from the valley heat,
you will come upon a glade where spring
still lingers in bottle-green shade.

Dogwood dropped the last brown petals

weeks ago down in the valley.
Here, shy spring still hides
behind a fan of leaves.

Soon enough, winter snow

will melt in alpine country, drawing heat
to high mountain peaks; 
and all of pastel spring will be a memory.

Today, flowers cling to branches,

tossing in a breeze that tumbles
dust and daydreams,
caught between the turn of seasons.


Today's LittleNip:


haunting, otherworldly―
a flit of movement across the drive―

and in the deep green cypress,
a tiny bird with firecracker-orange head

song still pouring across the morning,
so much sound from such a tiny throat. . . .

—Katy Brown



Giuliana Gabrielli and Annie Menebroker
[Be sure to check out Medusa's Facebook page
for our Annie's new photo album of the 
WTF release at Luna's last Thursday night!]