Tag Archives: Rabbit Lane

Utah State Poetry Society

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I am pleased that the Utah State Poetry Society, to which I belong, has seen fit to highlight my recent book, Rabbit Lane: Memoir of a Country Road, on the member Publications page of its website.  Scroll down and click on my hyperlinked name to see the entry.  I have previously mentioned on this blog the publication of my book.  You can see the post here.  I am so grateful to many friends and family for their enthusiastic support.

Snow

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A snowy Rabbit Lane

In arid Utah we are grateful for snows that persist through March, April, and sometimes even into May.  I remember a May 1993 snowstorm that dropped a full three feet of new snow on the streets and yards of Salt Lake City, the year after I returned from being a Fulbright Scholar in Portugal to live with my grandmother, Dora.  These Spring snows add high-mountain snow pack that continues to slowly percolate thousands of feet through fractured bedrock, into valley aluvia, recharging the aquifers that allow us to turn the desert into a rose.  So, even though I post this poem at the end of March, it is still snow season in Utah.  I hope you enjoy the poem.

SNOW

Sky lets down her snow
in slow and heavy flakes
all the long day
as if the world, everywhere,
has never known but snow:
slow and easy, flakes
perching undetected
in my thinning hair,
granting shy moist cool
kisses on the bulb
of my nose, on my soft
sagging cheeks, crystals resting
on lashes looking up
to a distant gentle font.
Wind does not dare to blow.

Chapter 48: What Is To Come

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–Wherever you live, find your Rabbit Lane.–

(Photo credit: Jeanette Baker Davis)

Christmas day.  A warm south wind had begun to howl in the early morning hours, the kind of wind that tears off siding and rips at shingles.  A particular set of vulnerable shingles had flapped irritatingly above my bed all night long, as if under the sticks of a novice but indefatigable drummer.  All day long the wind had blown, with frequent gusts that shook the house and trembled the floor under my chair.  The bird feeders swung wildly on their wires, like marionettes under the hand of a demented puppeteer.  We knew the pattern: the wind would blow and blow until the climactic dissonance resolved in a downpour of driving rain or sleet or snow.  At 9:00 o’clock in the evening, Angie called us to where she stood by the front door opened wide to a world covered with new whiteness.  The south wind had stopped, replaced by a steady northern breeze bringing the snow from over the lake.  Brian, home from his first semester of college, announced happily that he was going for a walk.  He bounded away with enthusiasm. Continue reading

Pavement

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Paving Rabbit Lane changed the nature of the country road so totally and quickly that my mind and emotions struggled to adjust.  Gone were the gravel, hard-pack dirt, and potholes.  In their place lay milled asphalt, the detritus of some other road mixed with new oil and laid roughly to rest on Rabbit Lane.  Some chunks still showed patches of yellow striping, so disjointed as to be of no use to the traveler, pointing in no direction and every direction.  As I saw it, the County had strangled the life out of Rabbit Lane.  I, also, found it harder to breath.  This poem portrays my early perspectives of this black-oil change.  (See the Chapter 38: Black-Oil Pavement post on the Rabbit Lane: Memoir page of this blog for a related discussion.)

PAVEMENT

It happened sooner than I expected.
ROAD CLOSED barricades appeared at either end.
They had paved Rabbit Lane.
They had paved Rabbit Lane with roto-mill from some other road’s temporary demise,
mixed the black rubbish with new oil
and plastered it flat upon the hard, living earth.
Now, after rain, Rabbit Lane reveals nothing,
no tracks of the earthworm pushing perilously slowly across the road,
no paw or claw prints of raccoons or pheasants.
No more wet pot holes for the children to ride their bicycles through with a whoop.
Instead, oil leaches invisibly into the ditch
to water cattle and crops some place too far away for accountability.
Pink-flowered milkweed and wispy willow bush cling to the asphalt fringe.
They transformed Rabbit Lane from a dirt farm road with country appeal
to another icon of the American Nowhere, with all the charm of a parking lot.
Rabbit Lane, of course, neither knows nor cares about the change.
But I know, and I am saddened.

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