—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Public Domain Photos
AFTER THE FIRE
They let us back in.
Our home was a charred skeleton
flapping sadly in the wind,
charcoal arms waving at us.
I hoped to find photos or trinkets.
I bent to search. I bowed
in reverence to our lost lives,
but brought up nothing but black and gray ash.
It covered my fingers. It clung.
I made my way to what was the backyard.
Grass, once a living carpet of life's
dewy, bright affirmation, was matted and dry,
blades fused together the way victims embrace,
their last act before dying.
At that moment, lost and confused,
I heard a sweet song and lifted my head
to see a bird perched on a branch
of our one remaining green apple tree.
The fire had not touched this tree.
Its fruit was sooty, but round, ripe, and green.
I took one of the apples it offered, wiped
off the ash with a clean tissue, and bit into the tangy apple.
Warm juice, tart and sweet at once, ran down my mouth and chin.
They let us back in.
Our home was a charred skeleton
flapping sadly in the wind,
charcoal arms waving at us.
I hoped to find photos or trinkets.
I bent to search. I bowed
in reverence to our lost lives,
but brought up nothing but black and gray ash.
It covered my fingers. It clung.
I made my way to what was the backyard.
Grass, once a living carpet of life's
dewy, bright affirmation, was matted and dry,
blades fused together the way victims embrace,
their last act before dying.
At that moment, lost and confused,
I heard a sweet song and lifted my head
to see a bird perched on a branch
of our one remaining green apple tree.
The fire had not touched this tree.
Its fruit was sooty, but round, ripe, and green.
I took one of the apples it offered, wiped
off the ash with a clean tissue, and bit into the tangy apple.
Warm juice, tart and sweet at once, ran down my mouth and chin.
MORNING WALK
I make my way through dense fog,
intent on finding a clearing,
passing old tree trunks,
scarred by patches of peeling bark.
Cumulus clouds crowd the sky,
appearing about to burst.
I cannot walk faster in this fog,
fearing I might collide with
the solid body of an oak.
At crossings, I am not able
to see oncoming cars.
I must rely on drivers' headlights.
A pair of headlights approach, I wait,
then cross to another similar block,
drab houses and scabby trees.
My steps are careful and methodical,
on cracked, uneven cement sidewalks.
I duck to avoid low hanging branches,
a few muddy leaves still stubbornly
clinging to them.
Startled by sudden movement,
I stumble, only to discover
a frightened squirrel scaling a tree.
Could he be afraid of me?
I make my way through dense fog,
intent on finding a clearing,
passing old tree trunks,
scarred by patches of peeling bark.
Cumulus clouds crowd the sky,
appearing about to burst.
I cannot walk faster in this fog,
fearing I might collide with
the solid body of an oak.
At crossings, I am not able
to see oncoming cars.
I must rely on drivers' headlights.
A pair of headlights approach, I wait,
then cross to another similar block,
drab houses and scabby trees.
My steps are careful and methodical,
on cracked, uneven cement sidewalks.
I duck to avoid low hanging branches,
a few muddy leaves still stubbornly
clinging to them.
Startled by sudden movement,
I stumble, only to discover
a frightened squirrel scaling a tree.
Could he be afraid of me?
NATURE’S PLEA
Let me be your resource.
Take from me what you need.
Let me be the actual force
that enables you to succeed.
Let me be the soil you grow in.
Let my love replenish your soul,
and should we go on
together,
never diminish my role.
Let me be your resource.
Take from me what you need.
Let me be the actual force
that enables you to succeed.
Let me be the soil you grow in.
Let my love replenish your soul,
and should we go on
together,
never diminish my role.
A PLACE
I went to a place last night,
where memories linger, shadows creep,
and dark mingles with light,
a place called sleep.
I lay on a bed of moss,
alone in a forest of loss.
When the rain came in,
I listened to it pour.
I listened to it splatter.
Water beads glistened on my skin.
I slept on and on.
It didn't even matter.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WIND
(a haiku)
Just hear the wild wind.
I wonder where it's going
and where it has been.
___________________
Our gratitude and thanks to Linda Klein for her poetry today! She writes, “After reading some of the poems in Lucille Day's and Molly Fisk's anthologies (Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California and California Fire & Water: A Climate Crisis Anthology), I was reminded of my own poem, ‘After the Fire’.” Fire is becoming a fact of life in California, and Linda’s poem draws a clear photo of the aftermath for homeowners.
___________________
—Medusa
I went to a place last night,
where memories linger, shadows creep,
and dark mingles with light,
a place called sleep.
I lay on a bed of moss,
alone in a forest of loss.
When the rain came in,
I listened to it pour.
I listened to it splatter.
Water beads glistened on my skin.
I slept on and on.
It didn't even matter.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WIND
(a haiku)
Just hear the wild wind.
I wonder where it's going
and where it has been.
___________________
Our gratitude and thanks to Linda Klein for her poetry today! She writes, “After reading some of the poems in Lucille Day's and Molly Fisk's anthologies (Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California and California Fire & Water: A Climate Crisis Anthology), I was reminded of my own poem, ‘After the Fire’.” Fire is becoming a fact of life in California, and Linda’s poem draws a clear photo of the aftermath for homeowners.
___________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
