Another sacred spiritual poem!
There will be tall whispering grasses, the dry rattle of eucalyptus.
There will be blue gorse and ice plants with sharp crimson tips.
There will be oceans and Oregon mist.
We will wander among cypress trees that house the souls of the dead,
in the silhouettes, on the windswept backs of horses,
riding with our eyes closed,
The granite is speckled with lichen.
We fill our pockets with stones.
We meet with live oaks and hobos and old men with dark owl eyes,
in our mourning.
There are fingers of fog on the roads.
There will be silver, and the tailings of wishes.
There will be fence posts, and coils of wire in the weeds,
and we will be running,
again, on the hillsides of amber,
we will seek Missions,
where church bells go green in the cisterns,
where the crumbling adobe is gray.
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