Sere Is ...
Fran Gardner of Becoming prompted writers on Juke to write something about the word Sere. She reached into the meanings of dry, arid, emptiness that the word suggests to her. This poem is my effort.
Sere Is…
… the afternoon zephyr carrying seeds over the Sierra Nevada. They land wherever they may, sending taproots deep into gritty soil. Tumble mustard and asters thrive among day lilies and calendula. When the long days of August come, that's when asters blossom amongst the rabbit brush, covering the desert with a blend gold and gentle blue.
Sere is the gleaming white stone, so artfully placed amid the lavender. Lizards vie with each other to sunbathe upon its gleaning top, pumping their bellies up and down to moderate the heat. They scurry across gravel walkways all summer long before winter finally freezes their blood.
Sere is the roiling thunderheads stealing moisture from the land. Lightning strikes the brittle grass, leaving a black scar. The afternoon zephyr brings smoke from the west to obscure the sun and rasp within our throats.
Sere is the playa where dust devils dance until they dissipate like ribbons in the shimmering air. Sometimes the wind sweeps the whirling grains into high dunes against a mountainside. When the zephyr undulates over its ripples, the sand drones a song from its wild soul.
Sere is the plantings in my garden wilting into the parched dirt that holds them against the zephyr's pull. Mists from the soaker escape upon the breeze like virga never reaching the ground.
Sere is the horror of finding Buda's grave ravaged. Claw marks scraped away the earth, scattering the carefully placed stones around the mound. Fluids from Buda's body seeped into the sand, binding it into a hardpan sarcophagus the violator couldn't steal.
Sere is my parched mouth. I struggle to breathe in the arid night air. Nightmares come and I think of Buda and all my others who rest beyond my reach. Sere is the holes that each loss creates, whether bold or insignificant, my life molded by their former presence. I mourn that era in which they lived.
Sere is my wish to drift upon the afternoon zephyr some day. Perhaps I'll settle on a hillside of rock mosaics mortared together with wildflowers so tiny, one needs to bend to see them.
Or maybe the zephyr will carry me as far as the solar wind floating through eternity amid stars and suns.
If you enjoyed this essay, feel free to explore more essays, poems, and stories in the Ring Around the Basin Archive. If the writing piqued your emotions in some way, share it in the comments. I love to see what my readers think of the work. And if you’re really impressed, I’d really appreciate you subscribing to Ring Around the Basin. Let’s start a conversation.
Very impressive writing, Sue. Read it twice and will read it again. A writer I knew, dead many years now, expressed your sentiments in his writing. He shared the same connection to nature. In fact, he chose to be 'rested' in a very remote and wild location well within the sere (est) nature has to offer. His simple homemade tombstone is a rock with a few lines and his epitaph of No Comment. Truly a no man's land where a person can just stand to 'see' much of your own writing. Brava.
brilliant, Sue. and thank you, Fran for setting all this into motion. so inspiring.