The Sun, Naked
A tidal surge of green
across the Vaca hills,
new grass,
mermaid hair.
Wind announcing
spring before
its time. Mustard waist-high,
furrowed rows of vines,
the sun, naked.
Lupine flush
in purple rash
as if to say
we’ve had enough
winter rain. Yet drought
grasps us by the throat,
and we are still on fire.
The West Side Hills
The sky, washed in smoke:
without stars, no bearings.
The radar arc, jeweled blue and green,
edges up the coast, closes in.
The air takes on a sudden chill.
Watch the west side hills,
the firefighters said.
My husband
sits outside in dangerous air
listening,
jaunty Gaelic folk songs, grating
strings, like the twang of a banjo.
I clean every surface:
spray, dust, polish.
The smoke too thick for air support.
I scan vineyards and ridge lines
for flying embers, the color
of coyotes’ eyes at night.
Jennifer Trainor has been a technology company founder, product manager, and market researcher. Currently, she is a winegrape grower and lives on a small vineyard in Napa Valley. She is a member of the Colossus Circle of Women Poets. Born and raised in San Francisco, she has a master’s degree from Yale.