A splendid Pioneer Day to you

Perception of Light

I
Mantles of hollowed basins and stratified ranges soften
through light, distance, and dust
in this often torrid, light-leavened land of centralized, filial faith.
Perception fades over distance through
sometimes painfully short perspective,
all colors fade to purple and blue, and from that into shades of gray.
Alas, sight and sentiment share a root in memory;
human nature is besotted with comfort and predictable weather.
The engines of discernment aren't always so simple to prime as those creating the mirage of security.

II
Trees planted and patiently tended with wash water
and memories of birthlands still bless us
with shade and wood for fires,
a sort of progression toward the far-off forest they had hope for-
every bit as difficult to bring up in this climate as a woman or man,
especially in those days of ague and cholera,
drought and disease, burning plagues that beat down fields and families,
dreams and hopes,
though all was well.
All was well.

III
Their frequent faith, anguish, labor, and tribulation have turned to blue, then gray,
and finally to a bright-washed white
in the not-so-distant past;
the glory of our worshipped ancestors imagined in clean period clothes and unpatched prairie schooners.
As our present height builds on a show of slight will
and gout brought on by fatty foods,
a season or two brings us our slender fortune,
served on an earthen platter
and lit by the short-lived fireflies of this new millennium.

IV
Good, old Orson Pratt once said,
“If our Heavenly Father will deliver us out of the hands of the blood-thirsty Christians of these United States and not suffer any more of us to be martyred to gratify their holy piety, I for one shall be very thankful."
One might read allegorically, as well.

V
At the height of summer as the drought burns or the monsoon quenches,
as both rhythm and decay course with our thick, smooth blood,
each friend and infant might see briefly an unadorned soul-
despite or because of hopes worked for on the sagebrush breeze,
prepared for in this high-desert home,
whenever and wherever that may be built;
on the  mountain, on the bench, or in the valley below.

Silt and Shell

As the garden grows (though sometimes not-so-green),
     the air swells with arid pride and a sweltering grace,
as much for a lack of discretion as for the season's pattern.
     And, having lost touch with faith, substituting a hope in beauty for a
false god's smirk,
     storm gutters buckle with a burden of silt and a million empty clam shells
in place of water.
     Though to me sweetmeats no longer sate,
the off cast, limey husks still capture my children's dreams.
     Really, what more is there true to the universe besides that?

Corn, 2012

This year's crops are trundling along, partially happy with the heat and wincing in reaction, depending on the plant's preferences.
Not sure how long the water will hold out with enough force to keep things unwilty, though; we've been grateful for what we've had so far, though.

The near-ground froze in the lower slough of the acre this morning, not a deep-freeze, though one cold enough to stop fast the water in hoses and blanket the clover in hoar.
Yesterday, the wind blew warm from the southwest most of the day, until about six when the wind shifted from the north and the air came cool. It was a palpable change, and as the dust from the western deserts settled down over the hours before sunset, sweatshirts were donned and unplanted vegetable plants were brought inside after Diedre's birthday festivities.
Much was made different by the shift of temperature and winds; the change in moods was almost palpable in all of the children. Though we, like rocks, seem to common perception unchangeable by environment and weather, it's that common perception that is more often unmaleable to currents that it ought to respond to. Soft creatures are we, with doughy bellies and flaccid, fragile brains, and this earth of strong winds and unfathomable forces spins without much regard to our too often ignorant will.

Green RIver Nuke Plant

For your consideration:

http://nogreenrivernuke.org/

One day, what seems ages ago, Ryan and I were tooling north toward Moab after a jaunt deep into the four corner's south for who-the-hell-knows-what-reason, and we stopped to pick up a gentleman with his hitching finger out. 

He spun a tale of nuclear and political jackassery, telling us about a proposed nuclear plant on the Green River, somewhere just north of Green River, Utah. Not many knew about this place yet, because those in the know were trying to keep things really quiet. He said there were odd forces combining in support of the plant, but that there was still time to thwart the thing.

We talked about the San Rafael Swell, and of certain, special places out on the mesas and down the slots, many of which very few people can place, and even fewer people have seen.

The next fall, we read that a person matching his description had been found dead in spurious circumstances out on those mesas. 

The site above comes from a coalition opposing that nuclear power facility, and I tend toward complete and total opposition, for what that's worth. 

Check it out for yourself.

Out in the hills 'round sunset

A Back-and-Forth

In the way that the first, heavy drops of rain fall on a still bright windowpane,

Cracks in the floor, under the rug, where a connection with the process of entropy

is covered from view-

Craft, art, consumption, and the posy imaginings of blind, blue-gray rage,

Much of what is communicated is attention misplaced

between God and Man.

As rocks stretch from the ground to brush the heavens,
others imitate the process in reverse;

And who’s to decide which is the more spectacular or meaningful?

Our deep, rich loam, in a bowl

resting on a plate

on the flashing, slicing edge of this universe.