After Drought

After drought,

the snow last winter lay deep over sage

brush and grass, lush now from spring rains.

We have driven over the mountain from Sumpter

for this afternoon of memories.

Amanda reviews her childhood in Whitney Valley

tracks down infinite memories,

the old places smaller now

but full of rich experiences,

walks through high meadow grass,

flowers tall as her knees.

I watch her from a distance.

We scattered Mom's ashes

across her favorite huckleberry patch

settled all the details

divided or sold her few possessions

almost three hundred dollars in money

three hundred and fifty in possessions

eighty-one years of memories

I remember our Whitney years

irrigating wild meadows, repairing fences, cutting hay

music, writing, laughter and love in the ramshackle house

unused now, like the other old buildings

the big house we looked across the road to see

fallen down under weight of snow

weakened by 81 years of scavengers

taking 2x4s, 2x6s for other needs.

I'm unsteady on my feet

stagger on the uneven ground

as I walk toward Amanda

through sage brush.

She stands by the transporting machine

where she and Juniper rhymed themselves

to Middle Earth

and other centuries.

I resolved, no adult interruptions

of my 16 year old daughter's sorting through her childhood

so I tell her where I'll be

and I lie down on the earth

sage brush shades my face

from late afternoon sun

A highway 200 yards beyond my feet

gravel road 200 feet beyond my head

log trucks and tourists busy about their day.

Two blackbirds on the metal roof

of an abandoned shed to my left

discuss their plan to go nestward

and feed their young.

I thought I had little grief

She lived 81 years

some of them good and full of rich experience

and she went quickly, with little pain

but grief catches me at moments

There in the sage, grief sorts existence,

cleanses me of death and uncertainty.

We drove a thousand miles to Oregon's Blue Mountains

The days have been long

and the nights short

as brothers and sisters gather

and the memories are deep.

I drift into sleep

Logging truck sounds, car tires on gravel

tourists look at the remnants of a town

deteriorating, abandoned for modern ways

My daughter looks at memories that formed her life.

Blackbirds build the future of blackbirds.

I remember; I dream.

I could not say those dreams.

They are of family since Kansas, since Illinois,

since Freisland, since chipped stone tools

since the first contained fires.

The physical body burned to ashes and bone chips

and scattered among huckleberry bushes

dropping blossom petals and setting on

tiny green berries.

Oh! her pies were always so good

flaky crust, rich huckleberries,

dreams of my daughter delicately forming toward tomorrow

settling, sorting, building on rich memory

of a future carried confidently

against a background of thousands of years

When I wake

this gift is given,

a long moment of silence

when memories, thoughts, and dreams

resolve to blue sky enfolding me.

A breeze rises from the sage

stirs loose metal on an unused roof

to scrape the sounds of years we were here

the sound of Amanda's feet light in meadow grasses,

slowly returning,
sounds of the world in all its busyness

as we connect and walk toward each other

The sun drops toward memories and dreams

We walk toward the car

at ease.

We walk into all our next moments.