Walking the Arroyo
I walk across a meadow, wet emerald grass,
morning light, California sycamore.
The sycamore fruit is a thorny ball,
the scrub oaks leaves likewise prickly.
Natural: what we can count on to be here,
what loves this difficult place.
Fifteen minutes from downtown Los Angeles
is a meadow
and sometimes I walk there.
Phoebe MacAdams
from Strange Grace
Home |
Books |
Poems |
Bios |
Order