Small Surprises

Small Surprises

1

Traversing the hardscrabble hillside,

scattered shale makes empty promises

beneath your feet, rock

over boulder, beige

over brown.

The day leans long toward the west

and monotony clings to you like dust,

spattered in your sweat.

Below, sage and bitterbrush smear

to the far horizon. You tire

of the sameness. And you wonder

if God has grown tired, too.

In answer, at your feet, a sudden spray

of scarlet-Indian paintbrush,

rooted in sandstone.

2

Surfing waves of high meadow

wasteland, your boots trample

the blackened grass, lift

a memory of smoke­‐strangled skies,

wind, coughing cinders,

and the cries of those who fled.

At the perimeters, scorched

cadavers-Jeffrey pine

and juniper-bear intimate testimony

to the arrogance of man, careless

keeper of the flame.

Humbled in the face of such destruction,

you stumble to find,

midst charcoal and ashes,

a solitary green seedling.

Nearby, a thrush begins to sing.

3

With a tweak of the faucet, steam rises

to transform the temperate space

behind your shower curtain.

You enter your porcelain rainforest,

step on a blue plastic tugboat.

A curse foams up

into your throat, but before it can bubble

out, you consider existence

minus blue plastic tugboats,

wooden trains and Hot Wheels cars.

This child, thrust into your ordered life,

has roiled it into chaos

and cluttered your neat, neutral

rooms with tissue paper

collages, lopsided dream catchers

and crayoned I love you's-small surprises

of great magnitude.