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Dave Bonta
Cool morning.
Crystal-clear air carries
a whiff of sewage.
Indigo bunting,
yellow warbler trade songs –
same syllable count.
Chilly morning.
A chipmunk stops to scold
in a patch of sunlight.
One drums, the other yammers:
the pileateds agree
to disagree.
When the sun clears the top
of the tall maple
I’ll go get breakfast.
Fresh holes gape in a maple trunk,
as if from some Roman
soldier’s lance.
The new, smooth ground of ice and sleet
hasn’t quite set;
I keep breaking through.
Cardinals peck at the plowed road,
gathering faux teeth
for their reliquaries.
In the last year I have learned
How few men are worth my trust;
I have seen the friend I loved
Struck by death into the dust,
And fears I never knew before
Have knocked and knocked upon my door--
"I shall hope little and ask for less,"
I said, "There is no happiness."
I have grown wise at last--but how
Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough,
Or keep the fragrance out of the rain
Now that April is here again?
When maples stand in a haze of fire
What can I say to the old desire,
What shall I do with the joy in me
That is born out of agony?
O little maple-trees,
Slender and unkempt, looking with shaggy askance
Upon the moon-spiked solitude;
O little maple-trees,
Growing a little toward the sky
That touches you to all eyes save your own,
You rattle insistently for wings,
But wings could never tear
The stain of earth from your feet:
The earth that gnaws at you until
Your wing-cries strike the autumn night.
You see, with me, this crescent moon
Juggled on the tawny fingertip
Of a running cloud.
The touch of your desire, or its fall,
Would but be symbols of an equal death.
The sugar maples ...
Benevolent goddesses
Who offer honey.
As I crossed over the bridge of Ariwarano Narikira,
I saw that the waters were purple
With the floating leaves of maples.
Upon the maple leaves
The dew shines red.
But on the lotus blossom
It has the pale transparence of tears.
One night
When there was a clear moon,
I sat down
To write a poem
About maple-trees.
But the dazzle of moonlight
In the ink
Blinded me.
And I could only write
What I remembered.
Therefore, on the wrapping of my poem
I have inscribed your name.