Lake Washington

Sweet tender alders
are drinking in sunlight
fanning out thin brunches into the skies
from the dark rancid mud and the graying dead grass.
the fireworks of the blossoming branches:
sakura, appletree, dogwood
crisscrossing the shady evergreen
in luminescent bold strokes
and the strange square stars
shimmer mysteriously as they cascade down still half-open.
The lake breathes evenly:
its bosom, shielded by steel and sapphire
rises and falls,
moist breath carnivorous, insatiable
(fish, weeds, herons and seagulls
are caught in the endless Brownian motion)
it clings to the shore
claws at its cold wet stones,
at the roots of the willow
yellowing in the anticipation of leaves -
and stops,
mesmerized by a tiny sparkle:
a daisy
in the grass.

Holy Friday

The spring - her heavy breath ice-cold breeze-
Tears leaden shroud of the darkly roiling brume
And ray of sunlight at the edge of the horizon
Makes asphalt burst in blazing fiery streams
And every blade of grass
And every tender petal
Of pink magnolia
in frost
Is trembling in anticipation
Of retributions
And earthquakes.


The broken body of the Lord
Is being washed with heavy tears
The ones who have not witnessed yet
His resurrection, full of fears
and hope,
Are waiting by the tomb