by Amanda Valdez
Imagine the clay of the central valley,
the grains dried up and hoisted into air
after spun under old, worn down tires.
Think of this dirt from a fractured back road,
something like Avenue nine, where the lane
is narrow, and a farmer shares the gravel
with a blue-collared family in their dated
burgundy van. Feel the suns heat, holding
the lines of almond blossoms like two hands
cupping water—water this dusty land needs,
dust we comb out of our hair, for a push of wind
to snap them off the branches like falling snow.
Remember this farmer, this family, this dirt
we drive through morning till night trying
to make sense of the dust, of these short cuts
we take for a glimpse of an open, warm field¬––
the particles that make up our skin and soil.
Imagine this road is an endless one
with stunning lines of orchards like pure,
white emissaries, against a clear sky
as if you’ve never left.