Formless and inconstant paths,
weighted roots with no foundation;
whence does it arise but from a
disjointed countenance with no proportion,
or a leaf from a broken branch?
Dust in the fields,
sunless clouds in aimless procession,
breathless winds and incorporeal birds
that have forgotten their wings;
the water’s edge no longer beckons.
The once gentle and complaisant calf limps away in fear
along a scabrous meadow that has turned in unto itself,
where the borders now fold into jagged embankments on all sides,
where the drought-weakened oak palliates no more
and the hope of a thousand tomorrows goes to rest
Face down, arms tucked in, like a child stroked gently by the lapping shore.
Fate has made its final trek across the mound
and now comes to compel my love,
to usurp my longings and make sprightly
each of my steps to a sweet place beneath
A darkened moon where the leaves are heard no more,
where the touch has faded and this thoughtless mass
has swallowed the desiderium of yesteryear’s solace.
A singular drop seeks nothingness but does not find.
It vacillates between atonement and quietude
As have all the drops before it,
as have the senescent imaginings of an unattainable peace
that broods just below a smiling face.
I will not see it fall to the earth below;
The eyes have chosen the undifferentiated sky, and the sky, the unseen.
Art: “Bosque De Abdules”