When my hair was auburn,
we picked oranges from our tree in Sacramento.
You played giraffe,
circled the tree with your orange picker.
And we went on living together,
two friends held in the blessing of trust.
You seldom angered,
held to a peaceful countenance.
At forty-four, I dreamt of our burial plots,
your head resting next to mine.
Why should I look elsewhere?
Barely forty-five, you were given military orders.
You traveled far into the country of burning buildings.
You have been gone over a year.
Two mourning doves coo near our potting shed.
You’d fumbled with your buttons before you left.
Weeds by the front gate choke our flower bed,
too many to pull out by hand. October’s
leaves fall early this year. Monarchs
are already at the Monterey Coast, some
as far as Mexico. I grow melancholy.
When you return, write me beforehand
and I’ll rush to the Delta to meet you
by Lee’s rice fields where we first met.
lives with her husband and their Samoyed on six acres in a forest of oaks and
ponderosa pines in Lassen County, California, where they enjoy the solitude and
beauty. Soon after moving to Lassen County, Dianna founded The Thompson Peak
Writers’ Workshop, which has been going for twenty-six years. As she says,
“The work by others inspires me to be my very best writer.”
For more information, see Brief Bio at the