Tuesday, December 28, 2010

IN THE BLACKBERRY SEASON

Every morning, as soon as the sun shakes me,
I up and go, gathering each flower I encounter
on the paths all along I loaf.

Sometimes, I found them in such plenties,
they don’t fit in my hands as fingers
or like sweat flowing under my arms.
It is so when I bump into a cherry tree
which has had an early blossom.
I just can’t refrain from scaling
its harsh trunk, full of bumps
as any road anywhere I've roamed.
And, taking hold of one branch with the legs,
I straighten up and it is as though I began to ride,
one grip pulling the silky mane,
the other palm sheltering my sight
from the early promise of light.

It’s good to see things from a height
– my eyes glide over the electric poles,
the split between the buildings and the commuters' traffic
as a fleet of pigeons. But even more enjoyable
is to sense my weight warping downwards,
my body slowly dismounting
until we land on earth just safe and sound.
For the trees are even more beautiful
when you see them from the ground.

So I resume my journey, now assembling
the fruits that seduce me
from the fences on a lane.

Sometimes the harvest is so handsome,
I cannot store it only in the eyes,
and have to swallow a heavy share.
It is so in the blackberry season,
when, after a rich feast, I opt for a rest,
burying my belly beneath the terrain,
as loaded as a bulgy basket.

It is delicious to realise that something has returned
the element’s stubbornness and the summer’s stolen fire
in the species of such sweet juice.
Even more so is to feel all along my flesh
trickling down the lymph perfume,
filling me up till I’m like a plump berry
fallen off the branch just because so ripe,
only anticipating the time when shall arrive
the oncoming pomegranate era.

And so I go on crossing the mornings,
now amassing the shadows
the leaves drip on the autumn-fields.

Sometimes they are so numerous that a mattress of leaves
muffles the voice of my footprints
– the trees meditate sleepwalkingly,
better not to disturb their well-earned sleep.
Then I lie myself down for a nap
as a leaf over older leaf layers.
But after a brief relief, my fool-bells wake me up,
rung by all the things I met in my travelings,
which still surround and hug me as the moss
that affectionately envolves the tree that matures,
and warn me that I will never be material
for becoming anything without a company.

It mortifies me to know there are so many
who mock of my shadows cropping.
As though it made no difference if the leaves flew away,
since they are so many of them and would lose hold anyway.
They still can’t see the sodden simile.
For we are ourselves like those leaves
that clutch at the trunk tenaciously,
although we already know all attachment and pain
are just vain, later or sooner or in-between,
the seasons’ spin will swirl us in its wind,
and all we will manage to carry around
is the very dust which clung onto the skin
we now dress out.

And then I follow on the same story
always and always gathering
new mornings.

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