GREEN GULCH

The breezes die down.

The world resolves behind me.

One leaf pats the pond.

The grasses whisper.

Mountains separate from sky.

The breezes die down.

One leaf pats the pond.

The sky and the sun quiver.

The grasses whisper.

—Bob Fletcher

NAMES

the flowers all have names

like they belong to me


or daisy in a bucket


the tallest trees look down

before they fall

and claim they see it all

but none of that is true

the fern’s family tree


is found in stone


but not its name


the mother of the moss that lived on that old rock

beneath the falls of that old stream before it fell

might give the rock a name

better than you


but it would not be true

there was a time

ah let it go

there was a time when adam gave a name to everything

it didn’t work


nothing can be claimed or known


because it’s named

our names don’t mean a thing


but if the truth sets us free


and I hear it speak to me


most likely it will call me out by name

—Bob Fletcher

Green Gulch Farm

Things I’ve never heard:

grave gavotte of cottonwoods

the rhythms of their sway

What I’ve longed to taste:


the sweetness of the valley’s mist

sating appetite

Things I’ve never seen:

temple bell’s calm resonance

silence washing back

What I’ve longed to feel:

my beloved’s breath, this breeze

filling my embrace

Things I have savored:

bouquets of seasons’ gleaning

sage’s modesty

What I never knew:


this flock of waving poppies

waiting for my kiss

Bob Fletcher