mystic anchor
Your eyes—two palm groves at the hour before dawn,
or twin balconies from which the moon withdraws.
When your eyes smile, the vines break into leaf,
and lights begin to whirl—like moons upon a river
shaken by a languid oar at that hushed hour—
as though the stars were beating in their depths.
Then they drift into a lucid mist of sorrow—
like the sea when evening lays its hands upon it:
winter’s warmth within its breast,
autumn’s tremor,
death and birth,
darkness and light.
And through me rises a trembling tide of tears—
like the rapture of a child
afraid of the moon.
As though the arches of cloud were drinking clouds,
and drop by shining drop dissolving into rain…
while children’s laughter ripples through vine-hung bowers
and tickles the silence of birds in trees—
the hymn of rain…
Rain…
Rain…
Rain…
Rain…
Evening yawns. The clouds still
pour and pour their heavy tears.
As though a child were murmuring before sleep:
that his mother—since the morning he awoke
and did not find her—
and when his questions would not cease,
they told him:
“After tomorrow, she will return.”
She must return.
Though his companions whisper
that she lies there
on the hillside—
sleeping the sleep of graves—
sifting its dust,
drinking rain.
As though a sorrowing fisherman gathers his nets
and scatters song
where the moon goes down.
Rain…
Rain…
smoky nymph