January, 84 degrees--winter missing in action.
Persistent drought, freakish heat, substantiate global warming.
King tides, cruel reminder of far-away rain storms
soaking geography, not California.
Swollen surf sweeps fishermen off coastal boulders,
mesmerizes beachcombers, driftwood collectors.
Engorged ocean glows, pushes itself ashore.
Burnished lagoon floods low-lying wetlands.
Gold sunrise brings no epiphany or resolution,
just higher surge, dryer hilltops and meadows.
It’s another big buildup, symptoms of tempest
without drenching drama.
Malevolent willow punctures white cowl of calla.
Skinny twig protrudes, mirrors erect yellow stamen.
Morning chill pierces, penetrates layers of clothes,
hip joints, stiff knees, arthritic fingers.
Pine needles, cones mingle with rotting wreckage
of intrusive toadstools, rubbery mushrooms.
I wander granite trail past faux Tudor cottages.
Gold sun pokes through blue above restless ocean.
Blackbirds chatter, disrupt contemplation.
Passing jet streams lacerate clear horizon.
Icy breeze off morning surf validates winter.
Fuzzy sunrise blares above misted hills,
dark collage of pine and palm,
incongruous Lover’s Point grove,
slanting, ramshackle cypress.
Along the affluent side of Monterey Bay,
granite shore instead of soft dune,
seaside village with bright Victorians
unlike my flimsy townhouse
tucked between ocean and wetland.
Harsh Marina habitat, less protected,
roughly shaped by wind and salty drizzle,
toughens what it doesn’t annihilate,
shelters hawks, muse and poet.
Jennifer Lagier is in training to raise dead snakes from the grave, sea serpents from winter torpor.