Saturday, April 28, 2012
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
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
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
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
In cups of dye,
pastel colors cover
smooth white shapes
that tip and rock
and slowly settle;
in a moment,
of yellow, lilac, blue
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,
and we come forth
what we were but new,
what we were
and who we are, but new.