The Rising Fog at Sunrise
It is not the marine layer
slithering inland,
but the earth
burping its vapors--
holding on to heat
through the night,
hoarding it
while eyeing icy starts,
the copper moon.
When the sun lays its tongue,
lukewarm, butter-yellow,
the earth exhales warmth.
It floats in the fields,
through tree branches, spectral--
a poultice for the eyes.
I drive and watch the dawn
hold a mirror to the earth--
the earth fogs it with life.
Trying On Oceans
I tried on for size
the one closest to home--
Half Moon Bay:
waves uninterrupted,
deep cliffs,
coarse grey sand.
The one further south--
surf for surfing,
rocky coves,
thinner sand,
but not quite.
North at Sea Ranch,
close, but too far
to reach. Also
the sun must slant
at the right angle.
And then the one
of cresting love.
The pelicans know it.
The cormorants drying their wings
know it.
Seals, even whales,
wash there to rest.
That is the one.
The Redwood Fades in Flames
The new fence unveiled
the red of the wood.
For decades I thought
the name was for the bark--
its rusted tinge.
Then I saw flesh exposed.
Planks of muscle, bare,
ruby blood aflame
in the evening sun.
What is left of the tree
howls, tongues ablaze.
It will fade while burning,
like the walls of the Alhambra--
beauty lingering
after losing the empire.
Forests lost,
here in my garden.
Dolo Diaz is a scientist / poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California (Monterey and Palo Alto). Her work has appeared in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Centaur, The Indianapolis Review, Third Wednesday, among others. Website: dolodiaz.com.
It is not the marine layer
slithering inland,
but the earth
burping its vapors--
holding on to heat
through the night,
hoarding it
while eyeing icy starts,
the copper moon.
When the sun lays its tongue,
lukewarm, butter-yellow,
the earth exhales warmth.
It floats in the fields,
through tree branches, spectral--
a poultice for the eyes.
I drive and watch the dawn
hold a mirror to the earth--
the earth fogs it with life.
Trying On Oceans
I tried on for size
the one closest to home--
Half Moon Bay:
waves uninterrupted,
deep cliffs,
coarse grey sand.
The one further south--
surf for surfing,
rocky coves,
thinner sand,
but not quite.
North at Sea Ranch,
close, but too far
to reach. Also
the sun must slant
at the right angle.
And then the one
of cresting love.
The pelicans know it.
The cormorants drying their wings
know it.
Seals, even whales,
wash there to rest.
That is the one.
The Redwood Fades in Flames
The new fence unveiled
the red of the wood.
For decades I thought
the name was for the bark--
its rusted tinge.
Then I saw flesh exposed.
Planks of muscle, bare,
ruby blood aflame
in the evening sun.
What is left of the tree
howls, tongues ablaze.
It will fade while burning,
like the walls of the Alhambra--
beauty lingering
after losing the empire.
Forests lost,
here in my garden.
Dolo Diaz is a scientist / poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California (Monterey and Palo Alto). Her work has appeared in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Centaur, The Indianapolis Review, Third Wednesday, among others. Website: dolodiaz.com.
