Two Poems | Jennifer Trainor

1 min read

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 

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.