A BIT OF VERSE

Aquifer

Long spring rains. The boys had rushed
Along the Open Space fire road
To see, hear the culvert spew mighty
(Or what passes for boy mighty)
And watch the well-known rock gully
Sluice lively, insistent with water
Pushed by the aquifer beneath
Our surrounding hills.
Screeching, hooting to surmount the damp
Roar they lean over the galvanized, fluted
Conduit out of the hills’ damp burden,
Fascinated. Of course, water being
The original magic.
One golly-gawk, and Kobe’s retainer,
Five hundred dollars worth,
Leaves his mouth for the culvert’s,
And becomes the tumbling, sounding,
Gamboling, unfamiliar freshet moving.
O, the funereal step toward home,
O, the awful confession, blaming
Appliance for a suicidal leap, for
Treacherous betrayal, for choosing
Wet burbling chaos over dental order
Sublime.
So now expedition, booted we go,
Chivalrous accoutered with lance-like
Long pool net to plumb the whirl silent
Beneath the loud culvert lip, but most
Of us make a high-boot passage along
The exquisite mosaic of armored
Stream bottom – varied, pied, speckled,
Dappled with earth hue like the freckled
Back of a woman you love, holding her
Hips amorously, just as freshly, loudly
As this rushing aquifer extension
Yearning.
The fugitive appliance will be pink
And white, and gleam with white
Intractable metal, it will be obvious,
And soon, we are sure, we surmise, we
Assume.
And we are booting guilty for our joy
At wading childish instead of expense
Solemn and dental serious, courting
The known, unknown stream we see
All silent summer, now noisy and
Somehow girlish.
The boys are useless, thank God, because
Each little turn leads them away from
Serious to discovery delight, why is this,
Why is that? Is this, they ask over the
Burble, a Rapid?
I think of ten ton standing waves
Misted with danger and ungovernance,
Nearly heart-stopping, rock-fleshing like
Ms. Gorgon’s face, furious danger even
To gaze scars the soul and sobers wise rafters,
Making rills and riffles insignificant but
I answer, Yes,
Unwilling to sit them on the muddy bank
And tell and tell and plead for them to know
That the aquifer of fresh and love and hope
Is pitifully shallow and will, when the awful
Sun dries the grass gold, give out and the
Singing stream will fall dumb and we will
Forget how cool and strong love was on
Our limbs, knowing the rain will not refresh
An aquifer before winter closes the door again.
Yes, I say, a rapid. Small, but rapid. Boot
By boot I go ahead of their magpie delight at
Something, anything, a small rapid wonder
Behind me.
And I am flirting with the evanescent stream
That will be dry rock in weeks, and wishing
Love were still walking with me.

Jan Adkins
Novato, CA
17 April 11

Braxinoso Speaks

I'm even older and more crotchety than himself, so my initial response is to tell him, "You're getting old. Get over it. Stop whining." But telling anyone to get over being old is a dangerous command.