Hair of honey brown and gold
Simply gorgeous truth be told
Eyes of steel gray, powder blue
Pierce my heart that's what they do
Rendered speechless at their sight
Look right through me with a light
That bares my soul, unspoken words
In silence thunder, though unheard
But if you trace out my tattoo
It's then you'll hear it play for you
My testimony sans fanfare
That proves "you know" is really there
When I was old enough, my mom
Would send me to the store,
Specifically, the bakery,
For treats I did adore.
But first, I had to ask them for
A rye bread they would slice,
With seeds, of course, or else
A pumpernickel would suffice.
And then some Linzer tarts for her,
Those filled with berry jam;
Then finally, the cakes
That made me happy as a clam.
Their name was Charlotte Russe,
A sponge cake in a cardboard sleeve,
With whipped cream and a cherry –
Just too perfect to believe!
They put them in a cardboard box
For me and my two bros
And tied it with a red-striped string,
As all of Brooklyn knows.
Today I wouldn’t like them –
Linzer tarts have more appeal –
But with a Charlotte Russe, back then,
How happy I would feel!
Sycamores certainly speak French, cypresses - ancient Greek, the Old Testament's olives are bilingual: they speak Hebrew and Aramaic. Birch is a Russian tree though growing in Canada. So small and frail (they wither abroad), already gone into a winter trance, she is silent but she is silent à la russe. That's how silent bears in dens are, that's how drunkards listen to the voice of the devils dissolved in their blood, that's how old believers pray, that's how a poet meditates on his faraway homeland and, finally, that's how silent my girlfriend was, accompanying me to the airport. What are we doing here, you and me, between fall and winter, at the crossroad of four Canadian corners?
a hush of partings
of pursed lips and lonely hearts…
we should go home birch
10.12.2019
December Or January Haibun Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger