Dust Thou Art

This senses poem was written in tribute to our dear old apple farm, set in the Watsonville hills south of Santa Cruz.  My sister and her family live there now, and it still looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and smells -- like dust and so much more. The photos, however, were mostly taken in spring, which so beautifully belies the dust.

I smell dry earth, the sweat and dung of horses,
Distended burlap sacks of chicken scratch,
Hot laurel bay and eucalyptus leaves,
Mom’s chili, wood smoke, ragweed, saddle soap,
Alfalfa hay in musty verdant stacks
Shoved into forts and stages and storefronts,
Shellac and varnish, paint and paint remover;
The pungent scent of fly spray, salted air,
Oats, rotten apples, dead mice inside walls,
Wet soil on boots, pink Cecil Brunner roses,
Hot cider, Folger’s coffee, flannel shirts,
The fallen fruit that scents the orchard dust.

I feel the strain of lifting sodden straw
From muddy stable floor to wheelbarrow,
Cool coastal fog against my neck as Dad
And I hike with a thermos over hills
Vibrant with dew.  I feel that barn-sour pony
Tearing home beneath me -- my numb panic,
Hard fall, sharp shoulder pain, embarrassment;
The amber evening sunlight on my arms
While cantering through undeveloped land,
The sticky, chunky texture of the oats
Inside the wooden feed box; scratchy hay,
The privacy of tree-forts and the sense
Of secret space yet union with all things,
Legs dangling down from slender eucalypti
That, bending, send me to the forest floor;
My purple fingers pricked with berry thorns,
And dust like talcum powder underfoot.

I hear the John Deere sputter, cough, and growl;
Rain jumping on the corrugated roof
Of our old barn, dogs howling, roosters crowing,
Ducks squawking, horses breathing, hooves clip-clopping;
The clanging dinner bell across the acres,
Danita yelling at her mom next door,
The screech of tires where the road turns sharply,
The thump of hammers, wail of table saw,
Dad calling “All right!” or, “Aw, cruminelly,” 
Wind fluttering through the acacia trees,
The crunch of driveway gravel that announced
A date, his car eclipsed by silver dust.

I see the old red of the sagging barn,
The oak worms Shawn and I picked from our sleeves,
The plays presented on our rustic stage –
Small Becky in a sapphire evening gown
As Salome, delivering the head
Of St. John on a platter (skull-sized rock
Besmeared in ketchup underneath a scarf);
The Scotch Broom frothing from the well-road banks,
Sun sinking in a shred of distant sea,
The broad leaves of the fig tree splayed to keep
Most of the summer sun from my green cave,
The steep twist in the forest trail where
Our ponies liked to dash across the roots,
The blossoms on the bellflower apple tree
Whose branches brushed the soil like a skirt,
The scrubby brush that filled the dense corral,
Clouds, columns, devils, swirls, and puffs of dust.

I taste the sweet Satsumi plums, the quince,
Ollalieberries, kumquats, and persimmon,
Fresh crispy apples eaten under trees
Or whittled into cider, pies, and jams
By Mom, who made the most of everything;
That bitter unknown fruit we used for pranks,
Dad’s catch pan-fried in cornmeal, kidney beans,
Spaghetti, chard and spinach, deviled eggs,
Surfeit zucchini tucked in every dish,
Pure well water, warm cheesy casseroles,
Tart sourgrass, wild fennel, boys I kissed,
Big gulps of ocean air and orchard dust.