stands for National Poetry Writing Month... I'm still trying to catch up. Should have 9 poems by now, but this is only the 7th, and it's a revision of one I started several years ago, about the grounds at our Provincial House in Los Altos Hills California:
What the Angel Saw
God planted a garden in the high hills west,
and there placed the black tailed deer
in the cool of morning to stroll by the lake,
arch their necks in the breeze
where the fountain shines a spray of water
on their fine fur.
Out of the coyote ground
grew trees for a throne,
their months each one twelve
fruit produces,
grapefruit, apricot, lemon, orange,
leaves for medicine,
eucalyptus oil to light
my lamps.
Underground hoses rise to quench the garden
with crystal clear as water.
Beyond there, the brown hills divide
and become the abode of millionaires.
There shall curse a deserving nothing.
The middle of dawn flowed,
light growing
down the steepness,
giving life to the river in me,
thanks to the Angel who opened the blinds.
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