A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
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.
Copyright 2020 Molly Fisk