On Recrudescence

Today the swamp maples finally blushed, first shade
of their spring hue, the brush of red
that hints at the regeneration
of green and I recalled
it's April, despite the flurries,
so I dug out Lorca.



Somnambule Ballad

Green, how much I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship upon the sea
and the horse in the mountain.
With the shadow on her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, hair of green,
and eyes of cold silver.
Green, how much I want you green.
Beneath the gypsy moon,
all things look at her
but she cannot see them.

Green, how much I want you green.
Great stars of white frost
come with the fish of darkness
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs the wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the mountain, a filching cat,
bristles its bitter aloes.
But who will come? And from where?
She lingers on her balcony,
green flesh, hair of green,
dreaming of the bitter sea.



Romance Sonambulo

Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verde ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montana.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella suena en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fria plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la estan mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.

Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha
vienan con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduno,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
Pero quien vendra? Y por donde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
sonando en la mar amarga.

On Spring

A tune of non-being
Filling the void:
Spring sun
Snow whiteness
Bright clouds
Clear Wind.

The death poem of Zen monk Daido Ichi'i who died on the twenty-sixth day of the second month in 1370 at the age of 79. From a collection, Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death. These are written in the last moments of the poet's life, a kind of bon voyage song as the next journey begins. Seems particularly appropriate with last night's convergence of seasons. The image of the writer on the cusp of 2 worlds, pausing for a moment with pen and paper, to make note of transpiration, expiration, crossing over, is poignant this morning -- with /snow/bird call/sun out my window.