Sonoma - Emily Axelrod

[Larry Robinson]

Sonoma

On the path to the studio
tarweed sticks to my shoes
and in the warmth of late afternoon
releases its musky scent.
It is the smell of dry brown hills, 
of horses sweet with sweat,
of dried manure and valley oak,
the bouquet of my childhood.

By the creek, nearly dry
from summer's drought,
the blue heron searches 
for a small fish swimming
in the trickle that remains.
Hawks circle above,
wings carving the dry hot sky,
and a garden snake basks languorously
against the stone wall.

Once I was 12, then 20, now 60 
And still the parched land binds me
to a distant history
of grasses blowing brown
in hot summer wind,
of cracked earth and lizards' skin
and the memory of my cheek
against the horse's warm neck
as I inhale her damp perfume.

	- Emily Axelrod
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