Notes on a Return

Bird of paradise season,
reams of green weeds in the washes,
a steel-brushed turquoise sky,
the sneakers are hanging from wires again,
a harvest must be in.

Arizona holds an answer,
one that can't be known.

A blazing chill sweeps the hillocks
along the pink lizard gardens between Raintree and Shea.
Random is anything but random.

People work hard, holding brooms.

The many shades of umber
frame the many shades of green,
mobs of green that hurt the eyes.
A scent awaits the hard, cold rain.

School is starting again: the hand-held stop signs,
orange vests, white blossoms.

The seed pods fall from the palms,
the leaves capitulate to grey.

The high school has been blown up
and there's debris around a man holding a broom.

The familiar, always strange.