Coast to Range III
Late night, ocean reaches the high ridge humus,
dripping from needle
down through the centuries,
between dark limestone,
saved from both man and sun,
past moss and leave’s deep indistinguishable rot,
and again up through the centuries,
cradled onto a bed of silt,
filtered cold and clean.
Descending, with life upon its path,
each drop feels its way home.
Splitting deep in the hills and falling
into soft spotted duff,
cool spread amongst the uniform roots.
Seeping down to drain
through the slick mudded marsh,
it collects thick and full upon familiar tides,
steady afloat, awaiting the signal to recede
out with the broken kelp,
riding current low off shore.
Apt to rise yet again with a long days heat,
called East to new soils.
Coast to Range II
Falling with the day,
each low dank, life draining tide
blows about webs in
low sprouted stem,
yellow upon sectioned limestone.
And whips over rusted rails before
wrapping faded pumphouse ply;
alone in thin rows,
thick with August leaf.
Its path, left to the hawk, climbs
the lands of foraged past,
free once again
to scatter the Northern range,
rim perched over the long agrarian plateau.
Coast to Range I
Only worn dirt and the faded 1
define order on the surface of this land.
Along with footpaths,
outlining patches of seasonal lush
distinct from the dry natives, rising
on steep gilded summer hills.
Hands claim each corner of land below,
coast to range now
flat tamed for fall’s profit,
with work meditated and swift,
for there is no halting winter oceans
steadfast on reclamation.
If the past runs true,
the wild, be it wind or water,
will one day bald these acres.
But with just prudence,
fertile soils may bear once again.