South Park sunset
Bert Haverkate-Ens
The bare black branches
do not keep pace
as I walk along the street.
The closer to me,
the faster.
The nearer the horizon,
they slow and appear about to turn
and watch what I am looking at.
Through this irregular moving
fireplace screen,
a spherical fire hardly moving
to my naked eye
reflects on the undersides
of dull gray clouds,
glowing as sweet as fresh squeezed
orange juice.
But I cannot pause, I have carrots
and potatoes to cut for a stew,
and this man cannot live by astonishment alone.
walktokaw.blogspot.com
A second look
The bare black branches do not keep pace as I walk along the
street. The closer to me, the faster. The nearer the horizon, they appear about
to turn and watch what I am looking at. Through this irregular moving fireplace
screen, a spherical fire hardly moving to my naked eye reflects on the
undersides of dull gray clouds, glowing as sweet as fresh squeezed orange
juice. But I cannot pause, I have carrots and potatoes to cut for a stew, and
this man cannot live by astonishment alone.
Clarity
Bert Haverkate-Ens
I want to learn to look out warm windows
and watch the last leaves holding on
as the north wind tugs.
And when the needle completes
its final spiral
and tick
tick
ticks
the endless silent circle,
I will hear music through my eyes.
And then, when
no leaves are left
I will take
a cold, bitter sip
from my cup
and settle in
to hear
the first,
white
flake
of winter
fall.
Nectarines
Bert Haverkate-Ens
I buy nectarines sometimes.
Their skins are red and yellow
and smooth.
Their shapes are round
and plump.
I put them in a bag for several days.
Then I wash one.
I slice it into quarters,
discarding the pit.
I bite into the flesh.
It is sweet and firm
and tender and juicy
and nutritious
and fruity -
next to a lump of coal.
But I had a nectarine,
once.
If I could I would take you to that tree,
it grew in earth near Fresno,
California, in an orchard.
The memory lingers
in my imagination,
but the nectarines were
on the trees.
There was more red in their skins.
They were no rounder
but their plumpness approached
that of the size of grapefruits.
I do not remember washing them.
I do not remember slicing them
into quarters.
I do remember sweet nectariness
in my mouth.
I do remember juicy goodness
running down
my chin and fingers.
They say perfection does not exist,
and even goodness is fleeting.
But I don’t care about all that.
I have tasted what I have tasted,
and I want more.
I will accept lesser goodness
than I have known,
and I will try to savor and celebrate
what is sweet
and somewhat nectariny.
But if I could,
I would take you to the tree,
and we would walk
hand in hand,
and step by giddy, solemn step,
and grasp on earth
as it was imagined in heaven.
And the ants would lick
the juice
from our plump
and sleeping faces
as we rested,
beneath the tree of life,
satisfied,
in the dying
sun.
walktokaw.blogspot.com
No comments:
Post a Comment