vidnik

FEBRUARY

She lives in old trees
things written about her
are strange
black apples
some pomegranates
and glass colored leaves.

I want to touch moisture
her skin.

I search the orchard
but, winter does not end

exhausted
I wait for the rain

hear voices
confused with her name.


SHE MAKES ME PUT AWAY WINTER

I feel the slope of her belly

my hand wet with her tears...
I am tasting pomegranate
my tongue turns
it over
drools in the juices.

she has sent me to look for water
I am leaving the forest

to harvest

and spring
is not yet over

the river running east
wakes

the long winter
shrubs seem greener

I would test the ice
for thaw

flood too early her fields
wash seeds from her eyes

take careful time
with her garden.


IT IS THE FIRST DAY AGAIN

I go to the river for water
and think of fresh oranges

it is march
the vision
of spring vanishes.

harvest
must wait for mushrooms

the birth
of children.

I search the orchard

stare at the sun.


FROM MY PLACE IN THE TREES

bodies I've forgotten
fall in the seeds

I reach through branches

a captured part of me is rain

water to flood her earth

the orange moon
tastes of sun

in the shadow
of leaves

reaches her green
body

even her breath
smells of mushroom.


SOMETHING I HAVE NEVER KNOWN

is near
when I walk back to our dwelling

her coarse limbs
reach for my movement
sudden...
as rainfall
into my hand like leaves.

the apples black from autumn
hang in the trees,

wind touches
both of us

rising to ourselves

in the shadow
we fall into moss.

Away from sun
we cling
to rock
easier than children
accustomed to dark.

the sun turned into us
twelve winters
still hot
and unchanged

blends us obsidian.


I WATCH THE SUN DARKEN

the stone contains
what I've looked for

feels soft

bends me
to her moss life.

I am talking in a poem
to myself

she accepts the sun
there is no warmth in our bodies
for words

touching this close
we turn night into mouths

lips are the first white
to begin
above the moss.

If I take her from this poem
I will have to face the forest

give birth to obsidian

and leave the odor of moss.


I UNDERSTAND THE LOVE OF DARK

the danger in living without sun

her voice
in the stone triggers some ancient
desire..some
knowledge
the earth captured

moss-odor
or promise of pomegranate

is the power her body has
over me..
under me the breath and sweat
of moss eating into us
my teeth in the fruit...
hardly stop to breathe

i devour the dark
in search of her warmth

find in the pool we create
reflections
i should have known were there..

this woman i am mating
is me
her flushed body
slips through my hands
pulsations subside in her
smile flows into mine

we watch each other for hours.


FEBRUARY, FATHER

passes

in the orange grove
pickers meditate
gaze into the sun.

the distance hums
a vegetation
to ancient forms

collapse of everything
echoes the bare leaves
as night sings in the moon
I throw stones to winter
fall in worship to tides
become thoughts you've created...

the soil as it mushrooms
claims the land for harvest

and our women
make their bodies warm
for seed

give birth to sons
who we conquer
with earth

the smell of spring.