The Spring announced itself today –
the 3rd of April –
with a flash of light
and an angry roar
it washed the winter off the ground
as it were –
And underneath the winter
suddenly the flowers, tough,
exploded from their hides
announcing: “We have had enough!”,
with birds in happy chorus chanting with them:
“Finally! Now we may live again!”
The early days of Spring
drowned in snow –
here and there a flower
far too hopeful for the future
stirs beneath the icy blanket,
head now hanging low –
Heavy dampness in the air,
whiteness everywhere –
muffled sounds from far away
as morning wakes to day –
Tentative light that tries to poke
its fingers through the fog of sleep –
the war of Spring on Winter
leaves everything to soak
in clouds it dragged down deep –
The sun fights with the whiteness
and wafts it gently by –
yet something still remains
to cloud my mind and eye –
The buds that unfold and grow,
the dew that resumes at night,
droplets in beams of light,
dispersing remnants of snow.
The skin on the back of your hand,
the sunshine through the trees,
the veins that pattern leaves,
footprints in the sand.
The wrinkes around your eye,
the dispersing remnants of mist,
the creepers that turn and twist,
cotton wool in the sky.
The dust in a beam of light,
the hoar frost on the leaves,
icicles hanging from trees,
your breath in a winter night.
It gathers on my drying lips –
the dust of our lives.
The dust of repetition, lives
of dust that we must live,
and dust-related lies as well
that turn to stories which we tell
and name as “memories”
Lives of dust – they dry us out,
they suck us dry until we die.
And all the dust, the day we die,
turns out to be what’s left behind –
an endless cycle of dust-lives
where only dust itself can thrive –
what is not worthy to be “lost”?
Life is like a drop of rain.
First a fall
then a splash
and it leaves a stain.
Then it’s drawn to the clouds
to return again.
On a riverbank I sat
resting my feet,
my back against a steadfast
reliable oak tree;
if I could be as patient
what might I not achieve?
I’d grow into the heavens
if I dared to believe.
But those qualities I lack,
I’m too impatient; too distraught;
never to accomplish anything
seems to be my goal.
All this restless hurry
drains my energy –
I wish to flow like the river
and grow steadily like the tree.
wave after wave come rushing in,
in slow-motion I watch the stream
of sunshine’s glittering gold reflected
on their perky tops, erected
over the following hills and dales
streaming silently over the shoals
until they finally reach their goals;
murmuring over the sand before my feet
every time a wave comes in –
each tiny little, harmless being –
I hear it speaking softly to me
like all my life I’ve heard them speak,
but never understood I quite
the language of their silent speech,
so what it is they wish to say
remains a riddle today as yesterday
Out of the ocean rises it, transparent in its beauty,
cocks head in joyful majesty and marvels at its power,
then bends its neck when nearing land, in curiosity –
consumes itself in foam and then
collapses on the sand;
retracted to the sea by subtle strings it disappears –
and re-appears and disappears; and yet and yet again