[CHUCKLING]
And the last poem, "This Yearning Season"--
how long am I supposed to read?
I'm afraid of overstaying my--
You're right on.
I'm right on?
All right.
[CHUCKLING]
It's called "This Yearning Season."
and there are some terms in here--
for example, "flyways" and "life lists," that refer to birding.
So avid birders, if you're honest avid birders,
have an honest list of all the birds you
yourself have seen and identified
and can add to your life list during the course
of your birding life--
and flyways are those pathways that birds
take because they're the easiest, usually
between canyons and along water routes.
Is there anything else I need to explain?
Nope.
"This Yearning Season"--
"Another spring done up in blue-eyed grass,
palms studded with orioles, canyons against premature
dawns.
Who can corner this yearning season,
flyways lapping endlessly?
My garbage disposal's on the blink.
Perhaps this is the year I'll build
a worm farm, red crawlers chubby as fingers,
fattened with mango peel.
The woman who sells me worms suggests herbal teas,
tells me sage survives Colorado red soil.
Six fingers per hand, she amends raised beds
regardless of drought.
On their 50th anniversary, my aunt and uncle
renewed their wedding vows.
Encased in white brocade, the bride
took the floor for the opening dance.
Violence curled.
Horns erupted.
Guitars plunked.
Baritone mariachis quavered. (SINGING) Maria Bonita.
Love notes sifted like incense over all.
The groom converged.
Glasses steamed, wrinkled from life's ceremony.
What to make of enveloped years as I joined parents, cousins,
every one my cousin, spinning in that dim-lit hall?
Transformed by the flickering waltz,
younger aunts emerged, high-breasted, lips unlined,
gardenias pinned to Marcelled waves.
And men in pleat-stiffed pants, hair ungrayed,
honored all their Marias.
Sepia-toned, the scene cobbled memories, photos snapped
in migrant camps decades ago.
Some say seasons never change here.
Some say air keeps to 60 in the southwest corner.
But Western and ring-billed gulls
endure a first, then second year.
Mid-April, impatient tanagers troll the avocado canopies.
Turned loose, even parrots go feral.
In violet, I survey oaks beyond my deck
for other lapsed migrants.
The night I spied my first spotted owl,
a friend turned my head with the moons of Jupiter.
One moon sidled by.
If a bird, I couldn't have claimed it for my life list.
But on my life, though no one sent me a love song,
air riffed that wedding night.
Barely visible, air waved like window glass
touched by a vagrant breeze.
Aunts, uncles, mother, father claim the floor
for one more dance and show me how it's done."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]