The Art of Crossing

The Art of Crossing

Somewhere out there on the edge of things,
the young girl crosses a bridge
for the first time, her bare feet marking
a path through the dry dust of summer.
Crossing is the hardest part.
The houses watch; the water says her name.
If she stays straight, nobody sees --
she is a shining clear as glass.
They shade against her; they turn their eyes away.
The girl heads north toward the hills
and climbs to darkened doors
that open cavelike at her touch,
where, for just a while, she is just
a girl who crossed a bridge and climbed
a height before she turned for home.

Patio de los Naranjas

Patio de los Naranjas

  

They say the fruit is bitter,

But the air of Seville sings

Citrus, a chorus that lines

The ancient gardens.

Smooth stones make faces

On the ground, where every

Good boy does fine

Beneath a Spanish sky,

Where he who sings prays twice,

Where solo is an aria of orange.

Accompaniment

Accompaniment

The poplars sway

Then stop as sudden --

A whole note rest

Alert for the baton

The beat of birds

The wind’s ornamentation.

Spent

Spent

See how I spend my days
As if time were a pocketful of coins
To hand one by one to a driver.
Five spent on the computer
Ten in front of the television.
Even the two or three I pay
To poetry clink against an empty cup.
I am forced to stand, imitation gold,
Stiff on the corner of eternity,
Playing for coins I spend on nothing.

Coloring Days

Coloring Days

In cups of dye,
pastel colors cover
smooth white shapes
that tip and rock
and slowly settle;
in a moment,
fragile shells
of yellow, lilac, blue
emerge, changed
as if by baptism.
Memory is like this --
it colors the days
with shades of what remains.
It weakens and submerges
but does not break us;
it holds us fragile,
self-contained,
and we come forth
what we were but new,
what we were
and who we are, but new.