We just got back from a wonderful vacation in Midway--fortunately a place that has miraculously 'stayed the same'.

What Stays the Same


What stays the same
Is the tang like sun-warmed apples
          that scents the shade.
And the smell of heat
                    deep inside the afternoon grass.
And the crunch and poof of footfalls
                              in the yellow dirt.
And the crickets that have always sung.


What stays the same
Is the slashed horizon.
That craggy gash between rock and blue
          that carves a jagged imprint 
                    on a heart.
And the way the weather 
          sweeps in from the west,
                    how you can see it coming
                              and smell it coming.
And the echo of its thunder in the canyons.

What stays the same
Is the music of rainbirds,
Of water running in a ditch
And the light at dusk--
          yellow and violet and warm--
The way it rests at the end of day
                    on the very edges of things.

What stays the same
Are the oldest houses on the oldest streets--
That come evening when the cool settles,
Open up like night blooming flowers.
Tiny leaning houses that puff their children
          like pollen out onto the lawns
                    to dust the darkened streets
                              yellow with laughter.
That breathe parents out onto their porches
          to talk in quiet, confidential tones,
                    and watch the night come on.


But while I was away
All those pastures, all those orchards,
                    all those fields,
So many of those farms and little brick houses
                              surrendered
To car lots and strip malls,
To cul-de-sacs of faux chateaus,
To glints of new window glass
          creeping up the mountain flanks
                              like gout.
To so much grasping disregard.


But what stays the same
Hides in the cracks
Where an old canal still runs
Or a line of straggly poplars
                    marks a forgotten windbreak.
Or the last derelict apple tree
          bent with wormy fruit
                    litters the dust
                              with winey excess.

I would paint my cheeks with ocher stripes.
I would paint them with my own flayed fingertips.
I would paint them with war paint and rage
                    but for what stays the same.