Rebel Girl's Poetry Corner: "call it our life"

Here's a poem for the change in season and for other things too. The Santa Anas came back today, rising quickly this morning as if someone had simply found the switch and turned the wind on, hot and high. Leaves are falling from the trees that have held them all year, branches too. Summer's over. The Fire Watch folks are out in force in the canyons, with their orange vests and radios, binoculars slung about their necks. After all, the arsonist of October 2007 is still at large.

Here's a poem by Philip Levine, who lives and works in Fresno. Rebel Girl addressed an envelope to him the other day. He should be receiving it right about now.


Our Valley

We don't see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August
when the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay
of this valley, you could be walking through a fig orchard
when suddenly the wind cools and for a moment
you get a whiff of salt, and in that moment you can almost
believe something is waiting beyond the Pacheco Pass,
something massive, irrational, and so powerful even
the mountains that rise east of here have no word for it.


You probably think I'm nuts saying the mountains
have no word for ocean, but if you live here
you begin to believe they know everything.
They maintain that huge silence we think of as divine,
a silence that grows in autumn when snow falls
slowly between the pines and the wind dies
to less than a whisper and you can barely catch
your breath because you're thrilled and terrified.


You have to remember this isn't your land.
It belongs to no one, like the sea you once lived beside
and thought was yours. Remember the small boats
that bobbed out as the waves rode in, and the men
who carved a living from it only to find themselves
carved down to nothing. Now you say this is home,
so go ahead, worship the mountains as they dissolve in dust,
wait on the wind, catch a scent of salt, call it our life.