Our California
Poems from Napa County
Postscript: (Capell)
By Leonore Wilson
The long lane curves out beside the meadow,
febrile puncture thistle and tarweed either side.
Leaf rot in summer ditches; embers somnolent, on the verge.
Slow tunnel of cottonwoods and silvery willows
where the bridle path joins a highway, drops to the valley--
old bridges, stone arches, roused herons in the stream.
Out into sun again, broad land of orchards, the long hill
upward, shadow breaking everywhere on white-faced cattle,
their big soft buffetings catching your heart off guard.
Now turn to the west, walk with the headstrong shadow
of this self you made in the long arbitrary afternoons —
the words laid down, hand flat on the mahogany table.
Then finally, there up ahead, familial Ithaca of stars.
Black steppe of time, sable heft of glory — follow
the shrunken trail, the clay broken road, funneling serpentine
to the house hand built of days off under abandoned aeries.
Light now in the cathedral window, children’s voices; blue lamp
on the maple hutch, a glass of fine port, a fountain pen.
Blackbird rustling under the budding laurel, wood smoke; settle
your shoulders, lift the latch, turn the key, step in.
welcome to angwin
By Sylvia Griffiths
a small place - not so much a town as an interruption on the road that travels up howell mountain winding through forested hills from vineyard rich napa valley below - a few buildings straddle the road - on the right some orphaned sidewalks line the entrance to pacific union college and go nowhere - on the left - next to some tennis courts and a playing field - stands a “plaza” - with credit union, post office, hardware store, laundromat, market and crumbling black-topped parking lot - there are no traffic lights but there is a gas station on the corner where four stop signs mark the intersection of howell mountain road and college avenue and the end of town - there the road begins its steep descent down a twisting tree shadowed grade into pope valley and its rolling hills of newly planted vines……….
a quiet place
seventeen hundred feet above the valleys below
almost secretive in its privacy
homes people
poverty wealth
equally hidden
discretely camouflaged by
stands of pine fir golden leafed oak
that shelter narrow winding lanes
running like arteries
through the forest’s spreading body
here there is time for solitude
for observing small details of nature’s ever changing days
winter green grasses born after first rain
distant toyon’s clutch of reddened berries
autumn leaves that move like birds in the chilling breeze
for hearing simple sound
roaming chatter of clustering quail
high speaking winds that call to the distant sea
soundless lullaby of a silent moon dark night
a secluded place
for remembering
the beat of time’s ancient rhythms
the forgiveness of nature’s renewing grace
the slow dancing dream of seasons change
here time
with the
morning fog
slips ghostlike
through
the mountain’s
sheltering trees