Heart of the Matter
This blasted oak with its valentine wound
harbors a rotten core, is riddled with fungus.
At first, I find it romantic, then
recognize
a
metaphor portraying torn friendship.
Months of intimacy
abruptly sundered
without
explanation or warning.
What was playful now dark, deformed,
pallid mushrooms feeding off
death.
Despite a ripped away heart, the host puts on
a good show, new leaves. Stubborn tap roots persist.
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Watteau Fog
Impressionistic fog
forms a thick wall,
hovers over chill ocean.
Haze dilutes landscapes, blurs
angular cypress, golden sand
of Carmel River Beach.
Mist and spindrift
infuse saturated atmosphere,
exude vague mystery.
Blue sky floats high
above a sullen smear
of purple miasma.
Scorcher
Fat kelp flies hang and scold
in the still, fetid
air.
Crisp foxtails
deconstruct into straw
near seer
rattlesnake grass.
Below a petrified
path, chill surf
slaps and snarks at
dark ocean stone.
Waves lift and smash
ashore,
spill rotten seaweed
and gulls.
Sweaty hikers seek
absent shade,
lift reddened arms,
catch the transient breeze.
Around us,
wilderness combusts.
The thermometer
climbs as distant hills burn.
Jennifer Lagier is seeking herself when not hunting for metaphors, trails, good shots and snakes.
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