James Lee Jobe


I planted my grief In freshly turned earth A tree grows there now You should see the size of it I filled my wheel-barrow With all my pointless regrets I put them out by

Moon In Virgo

You are not beaten. The simple music rises up, Children’s voices in the air, sound floating out Across the land and on to the river beyond, Over the valley’s floor. No, you cannot go


It’s mid-winter and the sunrise knows it, and wakes me With a shudder; I’m just a man. For 5 cold mornings in a row, the beautiful pheasant Has come to our patio to steal


It could be Valley Oak or Snap-bean, Elderberry, or Cattail rising out of the creek; All began the same, a spark of life inside, The need to be coaxing their will into action. Seed

Redbud Trail – Winter

It’s two muddy miles from Highway 20, Just past the north fork of Cache Creek, Across the broad meadow, through Blue oak woodland, up, up to the ridge, And back down to the creek


Quiet! Today the earth tells me, be quiet. Ssh! No talking now. Our soul Is listening to tiny things, almost silent. This is a language that you feel. Our soul, says the earth, hears


for C. G. Macdonald, 1956-2006 Charlie, sunrise is a three-legged mongrel dog, Going deaf, already blind in one eye, Answering to the unlikely name, ‘Lucky.’ The sky, at gray-blue dawn, is a football field