Spring. Insects soaring, buzzing,
or walk stiffly. Roses bloom, dying even as buds blossom on the same
bush, like my thoughts, the weather's unsettled.
biku in an orange gown, a wizened old monk with delicate
hands, slowly caresses the rebellious branches of a young pine with an amorous and cruel insistence. His eyes never leave it, as if the pine were
a beautiful and dangerous animal.
It had rained. As we approached
the Albuquerque Museum's Sculpture Garden, the setting sun spread
a reddish glow through lingering clouds, jamming with a complex
pattern of Jazz musicians, and a loud one-note frog hidden among ambivalent
ravens in a nearby pond?
love frogs that sit
Like Buddha, that fall without
Parachutes, that die
Like Italian tenors.