Trees

Trees, drunk with snow melt,
push buds through winter skins,
impatient crocuses bustle from the soil.

Everywhere something stirs,
its long sleep nearly done.
The wind blows without a bite,

birds are on the wing.
Long ago, it was gulls that called.
Now it’s wild geese.

Suddenly, I’m old,
every day a gift;
it was always so

had I but known it.

Love song of the seasons

Shall we meet on some vacation,
Soaked in summer perspiration
Or put it off till August
When the rains no longer dog us

Or shall I look for you in autumn
Seeking out your soggy bottom
Wrapped in leaves of red and gold
While your ass is growing cold

But not as cold as winter’s blast
Be you ever so steadfast
Will you be on some new caper
Despite the freezing vapor

Or, alas! not until spring
Shall I find you on the wing
Pushed along on some tornado
Nearly halfway to Laredo

Whatever is the season
You choose to fry or freeze in
I hope it’s not too long, my lover
Or soon we’ll have to start all over

Paloma

Cucurrucucu paloma
Cucurrucucu no llores
–Tomás Méndez

Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry
there is no beginning
and no ending
but one eternal
moment

unblessed, uncursed,
unaware of itself
just like you
at the edge of
consciousness

dreaming of stolen
worlds you never knew

Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry
everything passes
even the passing passes
until only a thing
that might be a memory

elusive, winking in
and out of existence
just like you
remains, or does it?

Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry,
it’s only your dream
from which you will
never wake.

Spring song

Spring is here
the sun rises early
and scoots across the sky
slowing only for high noon

Spring is here
the hawk patrols his highway
field mice scatter
songbirds bicker in the bushes

Spring is here
something – a flower, a tree –
pushes up through the
loose soil of a grave

Spring is here