Centinels

I wonder about the green lengthy dreams
Of the firs on the Cascadian slopes
What seest thou, from thy vantage point,
What knowst thou?
Centennial sentinel
Grim guardian of the forest’s teeming life
Watching unhurriedly
The eternal tides of sunrises and sundowns…
Pondering
The minute business
Of a squirrel
In your dark heavy branches
The noisome song of a flock of juncos, lion-headed, impatient;
The trusting innocence of a fawn
In the soft shadow, on his mother’s tail.
The timid flicker scratches your thick rusty skin
“Get rid of that pest, will you?” and “Yes, yes! And a little lower!”
The bear claws you, the brown Master, another guardian:
Respect and borders.
In spring sap in your veins, exhilaration of drunkenness
In summer, the stretching of limbs, golden slumber
And seeds ripening in heavy pointed pinecones;
In the fall - the wind, the rain and the wake for the departing birds
The children have grown, release them
Spider web faintly on the lips
The forgotten kisses
In winter, the rheumatic creaking of limbs
Jumbled letters of animal tracks in the snow
And long white coniferous thoughts
What knowst thou?

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.

Captured by the Snow Queen

(to my childhood friends, Lucy and Alv)

The childhood time was golden and slow
Like honey from a plastic bear bottle
The old apricot tree would get dressed in pink lace
Alive with the purposeful buzz of the bees
The wet clay between fingers was fat and pregnant
With a host of ideas demanding immediate implementation
Even the moss had its own inimitable sligtly pungent smell
Colored sea glass spoke of distant shores and adventure
Dead goldfish were awarded lavish funerals
Cats on the roofs engaged in mysterious rites
A boy and a girl were reading a book together,
Their shoulders barely touching, and it was important:
Trust and intimacy; in November the wind tore off
Acacia pods, sharp, curved and pointed Tartar swords,
Their seeds perfectly smooth, their juice bitter-sweet and gooey.
The unbearable backpacks were dragged on the ground,
And even the pouring rain could not interrupt
The conversation of two fifth graders.
And at home there was the hot stove, yellow light and cocoa
The fervent wait for the snow would be followed
By the impatient hope for the spring
The last icicles like some crystal amber imprisoned
All sorts of strange little creatures, wood chips and sand.
Sitting down by the bluish mounds of ice by the water
Lost in the halls of the Snow Queen,
I am still expecting a miracle.
December 31, 2008