went to the Oakland hills. Once.
warm sweet air before her spun like a speculum
and shattered all as if
it, too, had broken with the bird's cry
white and washed clean in
the waters of the sea.
cold made the grass glisten.
it was May, or summer, when he died.
had gone, had gone, why?
Ringa, spirit drawn fine as dried cobweb,
watching her marzipan harden and wither, knew
that the Countess was dead, now dead.
rode the sorrel steed to the top of the grassy
knoll where spreading oaks coiled tortured
by winds from cutting sea and darkening
pass. They grew thick-trunked, deeply etched
by the battle. Their acorns fell silently into
rode seeking the poet's stone cabin
and the novelist's resting place.
strange, she marveled, that
such intelligence, sentiment, humor and barb as
the novelist possessed should come suddenly
to this on an Oakland slope.
if she had no knowledge of death. Or of the
love which so led him to treat the messenger with
marigolds, nodded their bright full heads at
the crest. Blood and gold, demons, pursuers,
shamans, priestesses of
murder to save the soul of bleeding Earth
or so it was pretended by
all. Gnawing on the bones of enemies and bloom
they did pretend and could
not stop themselves.
rode until she found it, the gravestone, and
wondered what had Charlotte done;
she had a wealthy father; she
had a baby daughter; she had 50 years of life
had Charlotte done?
the mountain home?
rode until she faced only marigolds;
sat upon a winded horse.