Ondine

My ambition is to say with notes what a poet expresses with words.

Ravel

It’s fire season, my mother says as I head out the door. I’ll be

fine, I say heading out the door. She is checking a map on her

phone. Wondering if she may have to evacuate, like that time

nine years ago when there was a fire off Santo Road. Destroyed

all the land along the 52. But that was nine years ago. A lifetime

ago. Before children became adults. Before too many funerals.

Before surgery and learning to walk with a new body. Before

I leave to walk in the dry socal air I ask if she’ll be ok for a bit

and she says, of course. But I hear the tremor of anxiety. Still,

I steal away. Seduced by the grey skies. Promising the rain we

need. I put Ondine in my ears. Hear her nymph-like waves

wash clear the clutter. I feel a drop of rain and wish for a monsoon,

a voracious Bali monsoon fresh with frangipani and bamboo.

Beguiled by Ondine, I wander dusty sidewalks alone. And weep.

Unwatched.