The Joshua Tree Page 23

  Wild willow honey, Lily to Will

  to return

  is

  Wander, dear Will, look it over. Draw it together, here in your hidden home, all this accumulation of your life, things, so much, I hardly understand, the meaning and the tools, bring forth the riches of the desert and the mountains. It doesn’t matter, not to understand: which turnbuckle where, just how those ore cars worked, why the pitchfork teeth are shorter here than there, what’s in that paper package all trussed up with bailing wire, which cow kicked in the side of that rusting pail.

  to

  In the end it’s all yourself. Your paraphernalia. Didn’t Gracie likely have hers too, sitting in the old people’s home? And your Lily? yes, I’ve mine, and it’s with me wherever I may go, and it’s . . .

  go

  on

  Tap tapping, the toilet stinks; your Lily of the Valley; lightning and the deluge and the terror of the earth and air; a scout bee heading out into the blue sage; Pa singing softly as the fire dies; Colin at his little table weaving his lovely web; the frogs and the blood and the sowing and the killing to bring life and identity. To be separate and distinct that one may then reach and touch.

  our

  Honey

  the

  rebirth

  Here Will, a mint, found them in my pocket. Lucky too I had them yesterday, no, the day before, when I got to Willow Hole and it was dry dry and full of dead burs and the bees were so thick in the green willow leaves – water somewhere down below still and there aren’t any other willows up that draw – you could hear them from way up around the corner before you came in sight, and the hummingbirds all about. You’ll come with me next time, Will, when your knees are back in shape, and I’ll show you how it’s dried up bad.

  Good honey, willow honey, the first of the season. We’ll go there and follow the bees to their hive, shall we, Will? And the butterflies, hundreds, working through the willow flowers.

  Colin, you’ll be coming soon?

  She’ll move on light in my valley; Leev Mail Here Pleas

  Come with me, my Helen Jane,

  For the bees sure are buzzing about;

  They’re finished now their winter sleep;

  There’ll be plenty of honey to scout.

  No, no, old Will, no time for honeying, all of them gone now and Helen lying down there by the Joshua tree.

  Her window in the sky.

  Mountain

  Pine

  throne

  Roll, Walter cat, roll in the dust, once, twice, three times, three days and there’ll be rain. Like we need it bad too, bring the desert into flower, full. And I’d knowed there’d be a dry this winter from the range animals, how they’ve drifted off this year, they can tell and’ll move away for a spell.

  of the

  rain

  cloud

  Smell the rattler still? The cage where we’d kept him, and we’d studied him when we gave him rodents we’d trapped, watched how he’d hypnos’ them and they’d jump plumb into his mouth for the swallowing. By the grease wood, the creosote bush; that’ll come with the civilizing, it knows.

  Just take this chisel. No hurry, Lily, no hurry. Hammer too, I’ll manage. ’Nother stone to ready up.

  Nakwach

  Kissed me, kissed me, and she moves so light in my valley. They’ll do it, others, and giggle, the wreck, and maybe I’ll pinch their fanny and the winks and the sly looks. But Lily, there’s a touching, a reaching out and a touching, a coming back the years. Her eyes, joining, past and future and on and on, and now there’s no more need. Now there’s no end, I know it, on and on, she’ll move on light in my valley.

  Just sit here a spell, Hercules Powder, built their boxes strong, here by the rusting press. The old buck rake, ore cars and the steel drums from the dam works, buckboard and the wagon to Banning.

  We’ll let that Joshua grow up, Robin boy, always like to have them near.

  Sit here a spell. The buzzing and the humming, Willow Hole dried up.

  Gold, pulling pulling, golden. All this, gathered in my valley. Back to the years of gold, sleeping happy. Now I may go, Kov, my home, on the Volga. Ready. Lily skipping light in my valley. Pulling pulling. Down at the entrance under the Joshua tree, Mana lying, the Russian thistle rolled up to her stone.

  LEEV MAIL HERE PLEAS – SERRANO PALMS STAGE

  I, Joshua tree; earth to sky

  Gentle pain, working working, down in the soil beneath the warm sand.

  Stone standing, tall beside the others, chipped with their signs, their bits of blue like the sky.

  Sky to bring the rain, hail cutting, torment to my soul spread springtime white, my gift unending, to my green that draws sweet air to my soul, that breathes off the sourness. Sky to carry the sun, the juice of life, the message on and on.

  To loose the winds, press me, tear at me, dance softly with me, spread me to the desert.

  Sky turned dark to bear the moon, the night stirrings, nudgings to my side, the grip on my reaching reaching, pushing tunnels in the sand, droplets of the night.

  Stone standing tall.

  The presences.

  Slowed, drawing in, drawing in. Camps, the soft feet softly, cleaning, leaving as before as again. Here again, the hard feet, slowly slowly, bringing in and bringing in. A preparing, a departing. Joining to the dust.

  Here the light so quickly. The presence, sowing. Quickly, lightly. Touching again, touching our valley soul.

  Stone, standing tall under the whirling sun, the new sun, the sun strong to every cell. Tooth of the earth, seared with the lightning signs, their fire signs, their hidden clay treasures, their burning gold. Signs, the white signs where the eagle sleeps high high over my reachings. Over us, biting the elements, scoured, wearing, sand to our soil.

  Stone standing, joining to the sky.

  Author’s Note

  I have dedicated this revised edition of The Joshua Tree to my friend Bill Keys.

  I owe Bill a lot: his hospitality when I first met him during my wanderings in the High Mohave Desert and during my several prolonged stays with him, his generous sharing with me of his life’s story, his wisdom. Much of the story of Will Spear was drawn from what I learned of Bill.

  When I last saw Bill, shortly before he died in 1969 at the age of ninety-two, he told me that he was beginning to work on his autobiography. It never happened.

  May The Joshua Tree be my memorial to a heroic life and a good friend.

  Bill’s ranch is empty now, preserved in the Joshua Tree National Monument. Bill lies beside his Mana and his little children, across the draw from the old school house. Behind them is a great red-rock sentinel cliff: “Stone standing, joining to the sky.”

  Robert Cabot

  Langley, Washington

  March 1988