Blonde

fire1
detail, ceramic, earth
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BLONDE – a poem
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On the way to Albuquerque yesterday
I looked at grasses
By the side of the road.
The colors were pre-winter
Blonde and rust and tarnished yellow too.

I found it intriguing
Just beside the blacktop
That the earth there,
Braving the wind of our speed,
Was disturbed.

Some big yellow manly piece
Of Caterpillar equipment
Dug it all up one shiny day.
And after the dirt settled there,
NEW and DELICATE fronds grew.

They seem to like that place,
Turned and routed around.
On their own they chose it,
Over a lonely patch of green
I might’ve picked instead.

No, the lovelies thrive there!
In the reckless and impatient jangling,
Some orange-clad, sunburned guy-man
Took pride in his spit
And numbly walked on.

I thrive too, amidst disturbed gardens.
The seeds thrown meanly
And left bare and dry.
But see this, here?
My body still bends and arches
And the wind never broke me
Or took me down.

I lean and quiver in my place
Hearing something of a tune
That always drowns out the heat.
And my perfume rises
Until the Wind takes it.
He is greedy and ill-mannered.
But I don’t care.
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-CA 2010
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comments

2 Responses to “Blonde”

  1. Jenny on October 13th, 2014

    It reminds me of the parable of the seeds and the sower . I often felt like the seed on poor ground or choked by weeds, thought I’d not done well . But I like the little brave fronds growing where the digger went by . That’s us .

  2. laura Hegfield on October 18th, 2014

    I spent time yesterday, late afternoon, sun low photographing autumn grasses growing through sand around a pond in the woods near my home… some were starting to bleach out and blond, others were multi hued, purple and red wine, hints of green remained here and there… and then there were the little seeded tufts at the top, so frail, so thin, fragile wispy white feathers. I am grateful every time I am able to walk to this place alone, kneel down, take a photo, stand back up and walk away. It is such an honor to be so close to the grasses in this way, to hear the wind whisper, to be able to walk, bend, squat… I do not take this for granted. Tired in the evening, my legs unable to do the steps, lifted up to bed, I remembered not just the blessing of movement, but the gift of seeing, of being present to those fine grasses growing up through the sand.

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