Molly Fisk: Native Landscape

Back then, the new growth on redwoods was the brightest 

green and tasted of citrus, a good vitamin source if you were lost

.

in the woods, which I wasn’t, I was pure found girl skipping

down Steep Ravine and over Hoo-Koo-i-Koo, walking out

.

from the dark onto gold hills and the prickle of live oak

leaves under my boots when the trail dipped into a crevice, 

.

Spanish moss drifting from gnarled arms, joy of that salty 

breeze, the welcome yellow line dividing Rte. 1 into coming 

.

or going snaking its way into Stinson. Curved miles of beach.

Old wood houses soaked in sea air for years, never completely

.

dry and bougainvillea tendrils prying up the shingles, pulling

the gates askew. Beautiful scavenger, beautiful disaster

.

of a flower, paper-petaled, magenta and purple, sprawling across 

the town’s rooflines ignoring orange nasturtium underfoot.

.

Rampant invading pampas grass white-blond against a cliff face 

and seagulls quarreling over blown trash. Surfers wet-suited and intent. 

.

Fog hovering off-shore. Nothing owed to anyone. Nowhere to be. 

You couldn’t buy happiness like that, you had to inherit it.

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Copyright 2020 Molly Fisk