Saturday, April 28, 2012

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.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

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.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

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.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

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.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

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.