Foundation
Avoid the fault lines. (In California, this is not as easy as it sounds). Think twice about the flood plain, no matter how appealing that level space appears. Remember, sea side hills with ocean views have turned to mud in record-setting rainfall years-- who knows how many there will be of those, or what the path of fires will be, or crashing planes, or if that quiet crater will nap another millennium. Look for bed rock, solid, lasting stable. Build there. Still, how many times walking country roads, have I seen it, seen that uncracked base when roof and walls are gone or ruins, and stairs lead nowhere but to an empty up? Even firm foundations aren't always enough. |
Matter
Even if we never speak again; Even if the years go by And every note we sang together, Every reminder, is lost, And the last shadow of memory Thins and disappears as it walks past the horizon; Even if you never hear my name, And I forget the moss brown of your eyes, And you lose sight of sadness in my smile; Even if the constellations Spin and spin and spin Through their years of cycles, And the planets wander crazy paths Without our seeing them together; Even then, love is its own matter Not created nor destroyed. Its gift survives our consciousness, Our memory, our time. Even if no one knows, or saw, Or read our records of it; Even if all we are, and all we know, And all the world around us falls to dust; Even so, even then, some part of you Is in me strong enough As I am strong enough in you To leave a trace on all I do, and am, And ever will be – dust and all. Even if I never speak your name again, And you do not call me in the night, We will never be as though we had not been From Branches |
SALT LIES SPRINKLED
We sat, heads down, in silence. The last meal, finally, a failure. Any words left to be said Were no longer needed for meaning. We thought we’d tried as much as we knew how. As if communion at table, Crumbs scattered before us, Would be enough to keep us whole. A few stray leaves hit the screen door. The neighbor’s child pizzicatoed out a little Mozart. You’d wondered earlier about the coming rain. I’d put the house plants out in hopes of it. Salt lies sprinkled on a dark table cloth. A quarter ring from a glass of milk shines thin and wet. This could have been the sky before us If only we were looking up From Branches |
TOUCH
The trunks stand still when I approach As people who don’t welcome it, but let themselves be touched. I run my fingers over the Braille of these trees. With my nails, I gently trace the wrinkles, deep And furrowed, as if the rain had made ravines here. On others, I have tapped the bark that flakes, Feeling and tattered , like sunburned skin. And there’s the smooth, smooth surface I’ve pressed My fingers to that will turn shiny as plastic in the mist. I’ve laid hands on them: some gray, some brown, some green, Some sporting spikes around their middles, borrowed, maybe, From surrounding cacti. And I have seen the sap run Down the tree’s sides, over back, unmarked and creased, And returning, day after day, I’ve found it more lasting than tears. From Touch |
Sources:
<http://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue1/poetry/irenapraitis>
<http://hssfaculty.fullerton.edu/english/ipraitis/index_files/Page382.htm>
<http://www.rattle.com/poetry/tag/irena-praitis/>
<http://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue1/poetry/irenapraitis>
<http://hssfaculty.fullerton.edu/english/ipraitis/index_files/Page382.htm>
<http://www.rattle.com/poetry/tag/irena-praitis/>