The Levadeiro

On the Island of Madeira
                 where mountain firs comb water 
from clouds after dusk

the Levadeiro cools warming
                 tempers of farmers in drought. 
Across the Atlantic 

(on a coast by the Pacific)
                 I cycle round a place of learning 
in the lap of another mountain;

sail an avenue of palms
                 traverse El Camino Real.
Here morning fog masks 

silicon(e), dairy-free yoghurt 
                 politesse and privilege 
while TV news-breaks trill 

of ‘empty pool’ parties
                 to save a dry Cal. State.
Under vaulted windows            

light rains  
                 down      
on the pages of an adoptee citizen 

(who walked with placards here
                 who saw the Redwood bloom)
I drink songs of quiet deputies

sift bones of poems 
                 and dreams—
when evening comes

sleep rolls in like a blanket, stitched 
                 with a thousand precious needles 
to comb this life from the day.