Amputated Moon

be still

like the

round rock

on hill top

rooted by

inertia

static stone

less motion

less change

stock-still

the vole simply digs and tunnels

beneath the earth but leaves the rock

alone

tranquil

placid silent

not giving

not getting

quiet

waiting

be still and know that I am God

by Pamela Olson, 10/07

Offset

westward

stratified

Vapor

mimics

rock and tree

Rising

above

the coast range

Cloudy

mirror

of the land

Pamela Olson, 12/03

Small white birds

at field’s end

group, scatter,

then gather

at the start

of a new year.

Pamela Olson, 1/7/08

At dusk, I unwound

the strings of Christmas lights

from the tree’s dark boughs.

Off the coast, crab boats float;

their lights are constellations

fallen into the sea.

North of town, the sheep

have been brought into the fields

for the winter;

Easier for the shepherds

who watch them

in the long darkness.

The fishermen

drop their crab pots into the

stormy sea,

Trying to feed their children,

warm their houses, and

buy a few trinkets.

I hold the strands of darkened lights

and gaze out my window

searching for a sign.

There is just you

and just me

walking together

with the kite

up the rolling brown hills

just beyond our house

and my school

looking out for snakes

the breeze blows my hair

but not yours

shorn short

by a military barber

you in your combat boots

snake-proof

and I

wearing my Keds—

we stride through

the tumble weeds

and dry grass

ready to launch the kite

now—we run

fast

or as fast as we can

up hill

toward El Camino Real

our feet freeing up

the scents of the chaparral

we stop

breathless

there is just you

and just me

standing together

watching the kite

She walks into the water

parched, wrung dry

in the desert air

Floating on the surface

breaths of sand

echo in her ears

Rattle of chains that bind

her to you

drift in a current

What if I said to you

she swims to

release herself now