I want to lie on an open hillside
and feel everything
quicken in the light.
I don’t want to think, judge, decide.
It’s been a tough winter.
Vicky’s father died in November.
A month later, I found
my brother dead
in his Klamath cabin.
Then a month of rain,
flooding, slides.
Down in the frost-seared garden,
ravens perched on the scarecrow.
I want to flop down on a grassy hillside
and let it all rise on the heat.
Give myself utterly to the flourishing.
Bury my face in the massed poppies;
turn my face to the sky.
If I must work, may the task
match my flagging power
and meet my true ambition:
to feel the roots dig deeper
while I imagine
new colors for a flower.