Through flowerless winter
Southern camellias
Survived in bloom,
Enduring to welcome
Spring first warmer days—
Spanish moss beards
Endear naked oaks
And swing off long leave pines
While on the ground
Azaleas bursted
Into wakeful dreams
But I find the shady pink
To be their Queen—
Inland from the ocean
A wall of clouds
Glides away—
Gathering
Underneath
The grain of rain,
The sunset dust
Has begun to turn
The air of the hour
Into a piece of art—
As blooming pines
Took one by one
A different,
Deeper breath.
From Greeks
women still
draw pose,
clue,
heart—
fair enough,
once
art stood
fine,
not crude—
no dress
rivaled
nudes’
forms,
frozen
in stone,
hoisted
at agoras,
stoas,
guiding
strays
back
home.
No one knows
how gods see
or women
sense
what’s behind—
a glance
beyond their eyes,
as if we’re
mere flesh
and feel.
Yet humans
swear
gods savor
opaque scents
better than experts,
relishing
libations
while we,
blind to gods,
dim to women,
know less still—
yet never doubt
how to honor
or please
either,
rushing
with gifts,
buying grace,
treating
our soul’s flame—
celestial bloom—
as a flick,
a puff,
light smoke,
when beneath
its fragrance
dogs and cats
could scribe
tomes.
What’s good old golden bread?
A charm’s invocation,
finest common
magic spell.
Warm, fresh,
handmade,
ploughed field
and living breath.
Its ancient keys—
Пожалуйста! Будьте добры!
in Russian,
Молим вас! Будите љубазни!
in Serbian,
Prosím, buďte laskaví!
in Czech—
please, a code
of love,
unlocking
hearts and homes,
bridging shores—
be it seas
or Donbass steppe.
Bread,
a tender flame,
crust and shape,
mellow aid,
born of flour,
water, light—
of Heaven
and Earth—
ageless form
of mother’s
touch—
its throne—
a polished plate
on tablecloth
in calming ease.
From that flat’s
balcony,
narrow-doored,
I’d muse on Orion—
his gladius
below his belt,
three stars
perfectly aligned.
I didn’t know
he hunted Pleiades,
clutching
the Bull’s mane,
or at his heel,
Isis as a dog
barked,
seeking Osiris.
Below, a plaza
named for Peace
taught sanctity
in solitude.