Sidereal Time

Green Gulch

And in the evening
when the light is falling slowly
over the curving earth
we will walk
through the grove
of eucalyptus
that line the paved road
in the narrow end of the valley
whose soft, steep hills open
to the sea.

And our feet will fall quietly
in a place quieter still
as we whisper
past buildings, gates, hedges - still
barely believing
the ease
of our two shoulders touching,
our matched gait,
as if we’d pulled the same load
all along.

Down the path then,
not knowing
how much time
we’d be given
before we’d have to turn homeward
in darkness
though we could guess already
by the light left
we’d be all right
no matter what.

So down through the garden
past the alabaster woman
with her hand raised
and her vessel spilling
at her feet - offerings:
stones, pennies, the dying
flowers - we touch
her brow, kiss
our fingers.

Passing, then, the rows
of roses, of lavender,
of red kale and lettuces
and the crop of legumes
blanketing good soil.
I think of a recurring dream:
freshly tilled furrows,
stars above, breeze slight and cool,
dark shape moving over me,
plowing.

The skin of your hands
is rough against mine
standing in the road.
We will pass along the marshy
fen as the valley widens:
scaring up a green backed heron,
startling the horses from their feed.
We will huddle tenderly among boulders
thrown up from recent storms
that have altered the beaches forever.

And on our return
we will stand in the arbored heart
of the garden
and point out constellations:
Orion, Cassiopeia. No one
will remind us this might be
all there is. We’ll know,
as we know this is almost
as good as things get.
Almost.

Charissa Lynn Drengsen

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