In California: Morning, Evening, Late January - Denise Levertov

[Larry Robinson]

In California: Morning, Evening, Late January



Pale, then enkindled,

light

advancing,

emblazoning

summits of palm and pine,

the dew

lingering,

scripture of

scintillas.

Soon the roar

of mowers

cropping the already short

grass of lawns,

men with long-nozzled

cylinders of pesticide

poking at weeds,

at moss in cracks of cement,

and louder roar

of helicopters off to spray

vineyards where *braceros* try

to hold their breath,

and in the distance, bulldozers, excavators,

babel of destructive construction.

Banded by deep

oakshadow, airy

shadow of eucalyptus,

miner’s lettuce,

tender, untasted,

and other grass, unmown,

luxuriant,

no green more brilliant.

Fragile paradise.

. . . .

At day’s end the whole sky,

vast, unstinting, flooded with transparent

mauve,

tint of wisteria,

cloudless

over the malls, the industrial parks,

the homes with the lights going on,

the homeless arranging their bundles.

. . . .

Who can utter

the poignance of all that is constantly

threatened, invaded, expended

and constantly

nevertheless

persists in beauty,

tranquil as this young moon

just risen and slowly

drinking light

from the vanished sun.

Who can utter

the praise of such generosity

or the shame?


	- Denise Levertov