California

Those that call California young

have not met California.

Those that scoff at the plastic faces

plastered on all of our advertisements

have not met a farmer, seen the lines on his face,

nor shaken his hand missing fingers.

Those that call California young

have not met California.

She wears her age in her dirt.

Old vine Zinfandel growing for 100 years,

evergreen oak tree's roots reaching deep

into the soil and the brick.

Even her roots look like bark.

California wears her age in her dust

circling us and settling on antique hearts.

And I sit and pause on her piers,

looking out onto the rocks the take the

beating of the ocean.

And I wonder if when the Spirit, resting on the

earth without form and void,

if he rested longer on this place.

So carefully, oak trees look like fathers

poised on the rolling hills -

our protectors.

So gently, hills look like mothers

guiding us home -

our comforters.

Those that call California young

have not met California.

The earth is so old here it makes me

wonder if we even belong-

intruding on sacred spacial history.