“ We follow a pathway
hung with the moments of our lives.”
~Robert J. Levy
March days with their fricative energy fields. The long years gliding as on a
river.
Forsythia blooming in bells. A scalded, ringing yellow. Remember the blue,
electric nights.
White froth of pear blossoms. Remember
the diamondsilk of your skin when you were twenty.
Green sting of willow leaves. A wren harps in the cactus grove. What does she
blame us for? What does she know?
Write your life in obsidian ink.
*
First day of spring, a cold wind leaching the sun’s gold.
A black rain falling after midnight. Where?
In Arles, above the café, the emery stars burst open.
Sirius blooms, a crackling yellow-blue.
White almond flower. Tige d’amandier en fleur.
Landscape with couple walking and sickle moon.
*
To go back to one’s roots is to go down to darkness
immense odor of pink hyacinths
so that the light can shine again.
forsythia branches dripping gold
Learn to read glyphs written in the cornfields.
the air’s drawn blue, the blue of Nîmes