I let my Golden Retriever off her leash,
and she runs ahead to the orchard.
The March sun, low on the horizon,
fills the field with brilliant light,
the kind that painters savor.

Green shoots of wheat
to be harvested in late summer,
finger their way out of red clay.

In my head, you are walking with me
to where the plum trees are beginning to flower,
and then I am in front of your casket, Mother,
saying good-bye for the last time.

Blasting against my coat, a chill east wind
surges out of the gorge. I turn around
and look at my house. It takes up
such a small piece of this planet.

The maple tree is beginning to bud,
a barometer of when to plant the garden;
bird houses wait for returning swallows.
In another week, rhododendrons and azaleas
will blossom. Your favorites, I planted in rich loam
like the lessons you cultivated in me.

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Mark Thalman's poetry has been widely published over the last three decades. His work has appeared in Carolina Quarterly, Chariton Review, CutBank, Natural Bridge, Pennsylvania Review, Sou'wester, Texas Review, Wisconsin Review, and Whetstone among others. He received his MFA from the University of Oregon, and he teaches English in the public schools. Mark lives in Forest Grove, Oregon, with his wife, Carole, and their two golden retrievers: Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie.
E-mail: Oregonpoet at aol dot com
 

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