we left the forest
with my friend;
the breast of the Universe
leaned on us
a west wind.
waves.
smell of wet sage.
dry grass ablossom
all of a sudden
with white March snow
like a brisk lizard
time whisked out in sage.
no posts, no trees—only steppe.
a moth sat
on my leg. . .
her time is short.
a Chinese cup clinked
under a rain drop....
gossamer on a branch!
last autumn,
a spider flew on it
I breathe the hoar-frost
and dream about vodka!
not reaching the fire,
flakes fall around.
Epiphany.
and from the opposite bank—
boom, boom....
she is not alone. . .
tea, conversation, jam;
spring and
a gentle touch.
A frozen drop
on a willow branch...
but I broke it off...
an autumn path
leads to a fire
to warm our hands.
on the seventh day
of the seventh month
of the seventh autumn,
don't come—
I won't be at home.
the boom of floating ice...
from the right bank, a mullah's song
unwittingly made me stiff.
In an autumn wind
near a temple
a maple speaks through its seeds...
it's wonderful—
there is a meal
and me, and me and me.
© 2001 by Sasha Light
top photo by bob curto
[
Next Poetry Page | Home
]