november

the stubble fields, bleak november,
the naked soil waits for snow,
i am sore and my skin is thin,
the cold  entered with fog

which veils these horizons,
there, frost in my knees
when i crawl to the trees
and i freeze in the shelter

the rotting leaves, the straw,
they talk and a few stones
nod and sing with the rain,
sleep, freeze, freeze, sleep


in the silence under snow
i stay contracted, frozen pain,
i am ice and bud and life,
i dream my birth, my spring.

river

The river where calm and wide
does  it ever feel lonely?
It cannot turn back to ask
the salmon and swans

for leaps and sparks and songs,
it must flow and flow alone,
wherever it reaches the banks,
when it touches the willows,

the river can never stay,
it has but the moment
before and now and after
all in one,

and once it reaches the sea
spreading out with release
it still flows and pushes behind,
here end and beginning melt

the crows call the night
the moon asleep in clouds,
morning bathes in light,
wind kisses shore and river

and all is rhythm and pause,
ripples in the water, a voice
calling dreams: we are
rain and river and sea