Charlene Langfur, USA
i. Night Wind
This is how it is in the deep desert in the summer,
when the moon rises and the rabbits are out running
in the wild grass and I go out and breathe in the earth,
walk out into the dark, underneath the giant fan palms,
the wind blowing on my arms and legs after the unrelenting
heat, heat that never stops. I touch the bark of the mesquite
and the cottonwood trees when I pass them and I close my eyes,
trying to remember I am made of earth, the same as them.
Remember how I am in need of coolness and darkness
and sometimes a sky full of stars, clear to the eye
and the heart. How will I protect what I love about the earth
without remembering who I am in the dark and what I am
made of? And yes, the coolness runs all over me now
so I remember what it is like to stand tall with the trees
and take to the air and the century plants growing taller
each day in a lifetime when they only bloom once. I know this
and I know how the yucca will bloom soon with its white
silky flowers in the middle of one of the hottest places on earth.
Tonight the mesquite tree is covered with pods and I am
out in the world alongside it with the little power I have,
a woman whose power is slowly being taken away, a woman
loving what I am able to in a man’s world. Standing in the wind
under a cache of stars touching what I can, earth, what is living on it
and what it gives back. I remember all this because this is
the best way to even up and stay true to who I am, breathing
the wild, night air, green leaves blowing in the breeze,
tiny purple flowers breaking open in the darkness.
ii. The Walk at 7 o’clock in the Morning
Past the barrel cactus covered with tiny flowers,
mesquite pods hanging over my head,
the snow on the mountain tops in the middle
of the deep desert even in the middle of May,
the Sonoran desert, full of cactus, wrens and black crows,
giant winged hawks flying low over the canyon.
This is how I have learned to begin again these days,
walking with my 13-pound honey-colored dog who sets
the pace for us both. I try to touch the rough bark
of the fan palms when I pass, the new leaves on the yucca,
the century plant growing straight, blooming once
in its lifetime, carefully bearing leaves and stem.
I am growing older but in other ways I am not, taking
it slowly, knowing how time takes the most patience.
My dog leaps in the desert grass as we pass and I move
along with her, rising slightly into the air as if the rise
was part of what she was, what we all are, moving forward.
And this is the way I am moving out into life, walking
out far and all the way back. Clouds embracing the mountains
like dreams from the night before. The sun breaking
in the east. We’re moving across the sand, walking and
leaping and taking to the air. This is it, we are
exactly new on another day, head to toe.
iii. Caring for the Earth in 2019
How else to move forward now
without caring for the world around us?
Every day I walk out into the world
as far as I am able to go, my 13-pound honey-
colored dog by my side, wearing tie shoes
with support to steady me, keeping to a pace
and taking to the dry air, I breathe in, breathe
out. It’s some kind of prayer of life is what
I think today. Later, watching the baby lizards
crawl over the rocks at night when I touch
the leaves of the palm trees, smooth, green,
the moonlight all over. In the morning
I know the black crows will be on top, clicking,
cawing, sending messages to each other
like old friends do. No end to talk. The wrens
in the heather taking in deep for safety;
cover is essential. On a hot day
in the dry desert world, life is breaking open over
and over. I see how the animals and the plants
get along in a world dedicated to apps, hand-held
maps, electronics of all kinds as if the world
was inside them. What is not seen are the baby rabbits
jumping in the wild grass or my dog leaping higher.
I walk out of the house, past
the drift of information on the computer screen,
and look at the flowers opening to the world around me.
The tiny yellow trumpet flowers, orange nasturtium,
delicate and rich, roses unfolding in the dark. In a country
of electric lies, I know sense of an inner map
of what surrounds me that matters.
Today I’ll walk out to where the cactus
are about to bloom wild, orange flowers the same
as last year’s. I’ll walk to where the new mesquite
is loaded with little green pods, edible, full
of tiny peas, greener than I can imagine and here I am
a lesbian in America knowing exactly where I am
and what grows around me. I throw some of the petals
into the air and watch them take off like birds
wafting. This is who I am now. I stay and watch
them as long as I can.
Charlene Langfur is an organic gardener, a rescue dog advocate and a Syracuse University Graduate Writing Fellow. Her most recent publications include Room Magazine, The Potomac Review, Common Ground Review and a series of poems in Hawk and Handsaw: Journal of Creative Sustainability.
