Elijo Creer

That I will stand, palms atop the four-rail

now finally fully dried, on long planks

painted over burnt orange by oarsman

blue and too the trim of windows

contrasting saffron copper shingle

with century stonework and limber pine

surround and in the rustle of forest litter

on a cloudless afternoon in cherry

billows of chiffon caressing

and in a gap between San Gabriel peaks

will look out onto our Catalina horizon.

O qué piensas

of the deck painted over burnt orange

a muted fern blue and milk paint marigold

trim of windows and framing a sangria door

and leave lovely dusty berry vertical wood.

But of the four-rail, no sé, fern blue too?

No. A navy or something

dark watery.

The black bears, I hear harmless.

Chase them off like stray dogs.

And with spotty cell service

and cut from the cords of the news

will reread One Hundred Years of Solitude

then all the rest of the Marquez I’ve not yet read.

No, no, no es un sueño.


Originally published in, “the desert so,” (out of print).

Photo credit: Ranney Campbell, 2024.