Poems by Taylor Graham
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Fencebreaker Creek
by Taylor Graham
After 24 years between forks of the Cosumnes, Taylor now lives among tributaries of the American River.
Yesterday afternoon, a blizzard of blue-
oak leaves covered the newly-swept deck.
By nightfall the rain gauge measured
2.5 inches. Just the beginning.
All night I dreamed storm. The rains
kept falling. Our seasonal creek - dry
most of the year - came to life, an animal
gorged on plastic bottles and tires
from upstream, tree-limbs that ripped out
our fence-crossing in its path.
The creek bucked like a mud-bay
bronco, down the bedrock staircases
off Stone Mountain. The hillsides
rode washing downstream.
For years we've lived here by grace
of title proved by plat and survey
pins driven into good soil.
I dreamed our little house held - a roof
perched like a nest atop rockpile,
pinnacle not yet eroded away.
I woke to calm before dawn, break
between storms. The news predicts 20
inches. What have we done to our
weather? This beautiful, dark morning.
© Taylor Graham
From There to Somewhere Else
by Taylor Graham
These weedy fields
bordered by 2-lane highway and country roads,
industrial garage behind a chainlink fence,
and the old lime kiln now refuse-transfer station;
these vacant fields, wasteland of star-
thistle, greasewood, scrub oak and Queen Ann’s
lace in season; a placeholder for development.
I’ve seen it coming; and in this morning’s paper,
these useless fields proposed to be
parkway saturated with sidewalks, signals,
bus stops, parking and access to El Dorado Trail –
once a railway, now a foot and bike path
skirting these vacant fields
I know so well. I’ve walked my dogs here,
finding game trails through coyotebush that stays
vibrant green in bone-brittle summer.
These derelict fields, buffer to the Trail
with its oak woods and marshy little creek,
dry except in the cold days under branches bare.
Birdsong. In the newspaper, no one spoke
for these weedy fields, but
folks opposing the new parkway didn’t mince
words: pollution from old industry. Core samples
will be analyzed, impact studies made.
For now, I’ll walk these empty fields
where deep in the brush, I happened on a clearing;
silence in the midst of coyotebush in festive
winter bloom, the short sun just setting.
© Taylor Graham
Septic Creek
by Taylor Graham
From Canary Spring 2018
Duet of earth and water,
a love-song in spring, as creek
murmurs along the banks made green
by winter rains. Weather’s
the conductor – in storm-flood, a commander
ordering the advance downslope,
deliriously rushing and gouging. This creek
that starts in farmland soon
reaches the asphalt outskirts of town.
Here, you call it Septic Creek,
banks littered with bottles,
TP behind bushes, a beer-can crowning
the crotch of an old willow.
Who knows what waste the water carries
in its flow?
Oh sand and gravel, bulrushes
and snails, nature’s unheralded filtering.
A simple, elemental process.
Weather is air and free-ranging water
making music with the deep-voiced land.
© Taylor Graham
The Pond the Trees the Sky
by Taylor Graham
From Canary Spring 2018
Across the field, through the post &
crossbar gate, and along the creek full now
after winter storms, I’m headed
for the pond where lilies float in summer,
and sun is checkered shade on shore;
across from the Nisenan village,
cedar-bark tepees in a meadow, a log
circle for sitting – a gathering place of tribes
long ago. Soon there will be drumming
under air-born clouds, story-telling poems
to redeem a past. But – the pond’s
shaved bare. Six tall ponderosas felled,
bodies lying with their crowns in meadow.
Bark beetles. Not even scent of woodgrain’s
left. Our blessed summer shade is gone.
I want the pines back. How long
before a seedling grows tall enough
to shadow these benches
where we’ll sit to filter light and darker
words – what we humans do with loss.
© Taylor Graham