The Scent of Almond Blossoms

On early March mornings, as tule fog
begins to lift in California’s Central Valley,
winter’s skeletons transform into trees
and a blush of almond blossoms
carpet orchard floors.

Most every morning, I’d walk through
the dappled light of the alabaster canopy
until I reached the canal, where I’d sit,
adjust my headphones, and lean back
against the scaly bark of my familiar tree

Getting high on the scent of almond blossoms,
nature’s perfume, while Miles’ sweet-cream
trumpet played Gershwin’s “Summertime”
when the livin’ was easy
when the trees were still young

Before the scent of burnt almond

permeated the autumn sky—
before the Valley nodded off
for another winter, when the trees—
and I—were still young.


text & photo by leh

Haiku XV, XVI

XV

hummingbird hovers
so close I feel its wings’ breeze
cool my parchment lips

XVI

pollen everywhere
on mesquite, under mesquite
wafting in spring air


text & photo by leh

One Day In May

Hey, Sis
how’ya doin’?
I know, dumb question.
I got here in time--
didn't I?
Driving from Vegas
memories of
our crazy sister shit
raced through my mind.
The desert does that—
focuses, clarifies.
Can you hear me?
It’s a beautiful day
the sun is out – no fog –
the ocean sparkles –
diamonds and sapphires.
Remember the last time
we sat on Capitola Wharf?
So vibrant
like a Van Gogh painting—
starry, starry afternoon—
boats bobbing on the bay.
Forgive my babbling.
Does it bother you?
Wish I could cry
feel – something.
God, I miss you.

Here, let me lay beside you.
I’ll keep you warm.


text & photo by leh

Valley of Fire

Silver etchings of cumulus clouds
tower above Mesozoic sandstone

vermillion waves wash
across an ancient sea,
spherical ripples blown
by Mojave winds against
sun-baked cliffs where
wisdom of the Ancient Ones
carved through desert varnish
tells the story of hunters,
the big horn and antelope

life sacrified
for collective survival.

Shamans chant around
sacred hoop sculpted
from gathered stones
cleansed by sage,
warmed by juniper,
a spiral sun carved
into the petroglyph tableau
shines down on cholla,
prickly pear and maize

life sustained
for the Anasazi.


~text & photo by leh

Grandfather's Rocker

The creak of Grandfather’s rocker

on our wooden porch planks.

 

They have returned—the ghosts

of black-lunged miners

from a glossed-over wrinkle in time

when life was worn hard
as a vein of lead, its spirit subdued
under steel-toed boots
from The Company Store,
when Earth weighed heavily
on their chests, even before
the carbon tunnel cave-in,
its crushing vacuum compressing,
strangling, abducting their lives
breath by wheezing breath.

Until that day in 1940
when the whistle screamed,
“Don’t take a chance,
it may be your last.”


leh

Haiku XIII

Great Blue stands at shore
waiting for aquatic prey
stoic persistence

leh

Haiku XII

spring forth golden fields
California poppies bloom
bees drink sweet nectar

leh