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About the cover

  D e s e r t   E x p o s u r e September 2011

In a year of drought and wildfires, it's only appropriate that among our 2011 finalists is a poem about "the big droughts that we had to cyclically endure." contest

Garden Scraps


by Bill Voyce

 

January was green not white.

February and March were much the same.

Standing on the frontier of spring, the great wall of our annual Easter Storm was breached by the silent army of drought.

April, May and June were barbarian blue,

Routing the defending remnant of moisture from the grass and trees,

Wicking reserves from below in such numbers

That the soil fell open to the Mongol wind.

In our amphitheater of ponderosa,

Isolated straw heads signal the surrender of a great tree,

Spent in the siege for precious vapor,

While open water was carried as fugitives into the marauding sky,

Leaving undrinkable dust

To nourish those that the wind could not dispossess in full.

July, August and September draw hope along the razor of expectation,

With scattered overtures of reconciliation that flower then fall back.

In its retreating warmth, autumn sweeps the restless sky once more,

Carrying hope for a season to some distant quarantine,

As December's chill advances on the field to extinguish what remains.

How do you drink the dust and eat hollow insects?

How do you raise arms in defense of the earth against a synaptic sky,

Attacking with an arsenal of abstinence?

Life under siege never restrains motherhood in ignorance,

But rather threads its fragments with opportunity.

Birds, squirrels, ravens, elk and rodents drink from my well.

Eat garden scraps and thieve the dogs' dinner in broad daylight.

Life in our meadow is dry, not disconnected.

The great battle of Heaven and Earth is no battle at all.

We choose the eyes of war.

Girding truth in an armor of confusion,

Hammered from our suspicion

To seed the real drought in our hearts,

And withhold life's sublime communion.

 

 

 

Last year's Grand Prize Winner for his poem, "Llamas in a Summer Meadow," Bill Voyce now lives near Pinos Altos. His poetry, he says, was inspired by "our 20 years of living on the Hopi Rez and our little ranch along the Mogollon Rim."