Tad Wojnicki





The Salinas Valley blooms and fruits between two hills that bare it all. The hills stretch, bulge, and swell, folding the valley in their flesh.

Needle beds draw dreams. Cracks urge. Flats beg the touch. Where the sole meets the soil is where it happens. I detect a pulse underneath—earthquake?—fresh growth?—an upside-down river?

First, bitter heat. Sea salt or my sweat, I can’t tell which, burns my tongue. Stings my eyes. Tickles my flesh folds. Then, a cloud seeding makes the slopes slides. Again and again, I fall. Even down, I whisper sweet nothings.

Cones crash from the tree tops, burned by the bitter breath. I lay my soles well, praying with the feet. Deep in awe, I hug the throbbing hills.

Where the sole meets the soil is where I happen.

Copyright © 2004 Tad Wojnicki.  All Rights Reserved.

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