Oak of the Golden Dream

The oak that used to watch
me twenty years ago was gone
one day.  Huge, it was, in
the middle of an onion field.
A friend in summer, a skeleton
of beauty in winter, home
to hawks and crows. There's a Lowe's
there now, where they sell
oak flooring, oak tables,
oak of every kind, except living.


The old covered train trestle
that watched over
the Santa Clara River
is gone, too.  I only just
noticed last week,
riding past the new
apartment complexes,
shopping centers,
and foreclosure signs
on my way to God knows where.

I wonder if they'll notice
when I'm gone, too.  Gone
to find the oaks, and bridges
and history that California
left behind.

Look away, look away, look away.

In a Dream

At dawn when the fog
lay heavy on the lake
and sounds were muffled,
I picked blackberries
In a dream.

The world was soft and white,
no vivid blue sky to
sear my eyes and make
them tear.  I stood where
the bluff sloughed off into
emptiness, and peered down
to see if I could find myself.

I listened, but heard only
The grass whispering, shhhh,
Its lilting voice urging calm.
I saw a jeweled coil
At my feet, and thought
It was a gift from you.

I reached, but it moved,
And before I knew what
Tricks can lie in fog-shrouded
Dawns and dreams, it struck * a snake.
You.

And as I fell headfirst into
Whiteness, I woke, in sheets
That wrapped me up in dread.
Our bed.  In white.