Elegy for Jane
(Jane Mead, 1959-2019)
Blue cab grapes clustered on trellis –
Jane & Ramon face down in the vines
Last ditch as they ran. Transformers at
The ranch edge blew, sparks sky-high in
Freak winds. Then wildfire ran up the hill.
The acres unharvested, the main house,
The barns, pool and cabin where her
Mother died, all cratered into black ash.
Down in the rows, the vines held water
Inside, enough to soak back fire? But a
Whirlybird swaying sideways, hovered
First over the boiling pool, then plucked
Them out of the grapes, bursting in heat –
Gleam like human sweat on each handful..
Water, Water, Water: she once wrote.
Later I walked the charred acres by
Her side. Ahead, new dogs sniffed.
Other beloved ones turned to smoke.
Luck makes its saves, Jane said.
So why did the future burn up her
Body’s chance- rescued once -to double luck?
Just a cluster of cells on a scan. She lay down
On her own earth, cultivated and loved, so
Like that night when hell burned upward.
The wren who spoke to Jane built her
Nest away from footpaths or hovering
hawks, the whirling snake-heads of fire.
She fought, then finally came home to die.
By court condemned, Big Power had to pay
For failing to darken transformers that night —
To save Money, money, money (mantra Jane
Mock-immortalized) but crime keeps doubling.
The wren builds her nest out of char. Vines grow
Back green in rows that thrive, sudden and dumb as luck.
