Oregon Pastoral
Woven from Sappho's Fragments


Canicular Music

Summer's storm blows gulls away from the river 
To hover over meadows of blue-eyed grass,
Goldenrod, ox-eyed daisy, and farewell-to-spring.
A wash of colors bears away thoughts of labor.
Clouds build, ever darker, while he lingers barefoot 
On fine-ground sand along the riverbank. Some days 
His is the song of the honey-driven bee, now quieted 
Beneath gray clouds. Now his song rumbles in thunder, 
Stirs in tree tops, shushes among raindrops. 						
						(Carson,12)

Hibernal Music I

Winter watches white wings bright against gray skies
On either side of the river where we live.
She watches gulls float downstream tail first,
Fearless. Quick to snatch fish forced to move the same
Direction, swallowing them head first,
Daring,
Their chorus often drowned out by waters 
Coursing downhill. On a good day there is no
Need to scavenge, no squabbling over the catch. 
						(24C)

Hibernal Music II

She watches them still in sight of the river.
Bound to its rising and falling,
Out of the reach of Bald Eagle talons.
Gulls distain trees, build communities 
On flat rooftops. Messages aired in thin voices,
They hover over boats both moving and moored.
						(24D)
 
Fluvial Argosy

For each gathering its own vessel. Rocking
On one river or another with gladness and
Each its full complement of hands on deck. Cargos 
Of paper and books, with good luck, poems and stories too, 
Safely stowed on every deck, in every hold.
Meanwhile, what do you do with drunken sailors?
Wait for sobriety delivered in big blasts of wind
Or cast them away and hope they swim to dry land?
When Summer has the conn and watercraft sail
By celestial navigation, there are no fears for the freight.
The summer triangle promises long daylight hours when 
Every tool—canvas and rope, claws and hatchets—
Will find an expert hand at every watch, many
Tasks, and little time for what's in the water below them.
One crew gathered to discuss the words of the Masters,
One crew gathered to hear words borne so far,
And one crew gathered for the bright work,
All less at home in safe haven, feet on dry land.
						(26)


Arboreal Solstice

					So
Bare apple trees rise from straw.

Quiescence dwells in the grove,
Drifts as fog when temperatures
Rise and fall,
Stills when ice grows along branches.

Go with me into the crisp air
So we may see crystals form
And sparkle in moonlight,
Love,

You whose gold arms, summer warmth,
and gold feet miss ocean sands
And seaweed borne on tides.
Doom
Is too heavy a word for this frail season.
						(6)	

Season of Rivalry

Apples gathered. Wine bottled. Winter invites
All to a fire fed with wild tales. All, not 
Some, echo from pasts stored for such feasts.
Each tale builds on the one before, for glory,
For the right to bear the crown 
Of gold and blue flames, as long as
Night continues to lengthen.
						(9)

Victor

Summer offers rumors of drunken nights
Under sail or at rest in harbor, and exotic flights 
Through dreams. He says, Winter, for you.
He captures the flames of the hearth 
Only to set them free in the hills.
						(8)

Cold Harvest

Summer slips out of my heart's reach.
I offer Winter to it instead; absolutely,
Travel west and south whenever I can
Towards what light short days will give.
Now again Winter will be for me
Icicles left to shine in answer
To questions on Summer's face.
He clings to the new wine's 
Amber, his lips having been stained.
By the heat of his long days.
						(4)

Pilgrims in Flight

Whispering incense cedars greet Winter.  
Sunrise and snow-touched peaks wait 
To judge what she bears in sacrifices. 
Having watched her acts, painful and good,
Tumbling chasms of rock and water
Defeat wildfires, batter her. But going


Along well-worn paths, she rises, for we know 
Updrafts lift wings of eagles and of works
Scribbled on scrap paper and carved into stones.
The mountain provides shelter after
She reaches snow-filled mountain passes. 
Crows call to mark the coming dark, and toward
Their aerie fly. "Lead me home brothers," Winter says this. 
						(19)

Tales Wayfarers Tell

Through lands forbidden to us
We wandered with empty pockets—you will remember.
Isn't it a wonder we still breathe? For we in our youth
Did these things.

Yes, many and beautiful things.
We store some secrets beyond retrieval
And memories leave us, like swallows, for fairer weather
Until no one remembers that we did these things.
						(24A)

Pilgrim's Quest

To test the word old on the tongue and not fail. 
To taste the word old on the tongue
And not taste the salt of pity.
To reach, with both hands trembling,
For what is left of past harvests,
Apples, their flesh softened by age, 
Cooked down to sauce. To provide cover
For the nightingale who flies in pursuit
Of a lost language and long-lost desires,
Who prefers a life both solitary and noble.
To listen through the night to Summer taking
A risk, with words like bold, to sing to us,
That the one with dried rose petals in her lap
Can sleep. To dream of the doorkeeper who, mostly
At pilgrimage end, watches so that no one goes astray.
						(21)
 
Invocation

Now again take off your sandals,
Wash your hands, and take up the practice 
Of meditation. Wherever you arrive is holy. 
Wind sweeping back and forth stirs up still things
And small things that lead the mind to exhaustion.
Rain drowns such things until the mind settles down.
But come, traveler, dreams will prepare you for
Whatever power Nature calls forth, for day is near.
						(43)

Envision

Winter cowered, the sun at its brightest.
Laurel trees provided sweetest shade.

But everything sweeter proved more painful
Than that burning assault on failing eyes.

And for them, too dry to soothe themselves, 
Traveler, Winter could only sob.

But I scarcely ever listened to her moans,
My dear Summer, carried by wind and rain.

And such now move through my own mouth
To arrive kindly in an attempt to heal.
						
Summer, you got there first: beautiful, green
And clothed in Queen Anne's Lace. 
						(62)

Trina Gaynon's poems recently appeared in Glacial Hills Review, Delta Poetry Review, Dappled Things, Cirque, Fireweed, and The Poetry Calendar of Oregon, more can be found in Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California, other anthologies, numerous journals, and a chapbook, An Alphabet of Romance, from Finishing Line. Her book Quince, Rose, Grace of God is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. She received an MFA in Creative Writing at University of San Francisco. She volunteered for literacy programs in local libraries and WriteGirl in Los Angeles. She currently leads a group of poetry readers at the Senior Studies Institute in Portland