March Flowers

The daffodils adorn the earthen berms of bulldozed homesteads. The tenacity of ghost residents clings to the landscape. Mostly buried milk bottles seem to mark a forgotten garage wall. Every step I take becomes inhibited by rosebushes grabbing at me with their thorns. “You’re back in the land of your ancestors. Remember the thick brush, the driving rains, the bitter winters, the thunderstorms.” As I recall the centuries of mesic hardwoods, the clouds build to obscure the sun. I call and cry out to the pines to link me back to Mother Shasta, the alien volcano, and the golden light streaming through 200 foot tall orange-barked ponderosas. “Oh how, did I end up here?” The sparkleberry bushes blush crimson against a forgotten fallow farm field. I am amazed at what 50 years of encroaching forest will do. I think of the kettle lake meadows overgrown with sumac and buckthorn. Surely, I will find a way to bring the purity of spirit to this place, but its magic lies in different lines. Even Pike River will not help me understand the ways of these dry stream channels, dips, and hollows. In evening the clouds have blow up again and the chorus frogs carry the kiss of spring to your door. I will see you tonight luv.

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