Photograph by Viola Weinberg

For Quentin Duval

Driving through the hot valley
checking on water lines
You and James, miles of hours
stretching before you

The quiet between two friends
comfort, solace, fibers that weave
two men together as they drive
You suddenly shouted, “Stop the car!”

Pulling a notepad out of your pocket
bent with sitting, grimy and dog-eared
your pencil at the ready, you tumbled
like a bear out of the cab, writing as you ran

Toward the lamb just being born
toward the godly miracle of it, toward the sun
you flew, uncaring of time or space and
you placed that lamb upon your page

I can see your red face now, eyes like eggs
at the marvel of it all, your hand moving fast
to catch the sight, to catch the fire of it all
beneath your brow, a piece of heaven for us all

Viola Weinberg lives in rural Sonoma County in northern California with her husband, photographer Peter Spencer. She has written five books of poetry and a text on child abuse. Named the first Poet Laureate of Sacramento, California, she is also a Glenna Luschei Distinguished Poet. For the past year, she has battled her way through Stage Four cancer, thanks to the love that surrounds her and the grace of God.

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