illustration pending (or how sunshine and too many blossoms can remind of Avallon)

aloofly, the chestnuts

shower the senseless asphalt

with fragments of pink and off-white.

the sun turns green all over

the birch-besieged streetlets,

and the younger lovers

hide not their excitement,

just like the starlings,

desperately nesting, in

defiance and in glorification

of all that shines, sings, transcends

the frozen drifts of before.

apple-trees emit fragrances,

burning exceptional in the morning,

dazzling every breathing moment

with a presence of the land

ever in spring-time, ever to the West.

bird-cherry nights

like a soundless party upstairs,
the bitter-sweet fragrance creeps
into my dreams, perfectly
blending in, subtly
turning the stream of subconscious
in a stranger  route,

and i, asleep, watch
the white and the magic
dance, twine, grow
and then – nothing, as the wind
changes, and the nightingale
bubbles and gurgles
the sun awake.

burning photos

a flick, and another memory lights up, and
is elevated in smoke;

was it necessary, upon a second thought,
was that moment a pearl beyond comparison?

ordinary moments, strung on a fishing-wire,
like so many glass beads, fun to behold,
fun to make patterns, and so
ethnic, no high art would ever confess being near;

all that past mingles with embers
just now, and for ever, all towards

that one truth that remains.

a little story in song (this also has some of the latvian-ness feeling in it)

the long-eared hare heats the sauna when it is dusk.
when the wandering moon looks through the fir-trees, the mother-hare brings her brood to the sauna.
let us wash our ears, so they can hear. let us wash or eyes, so they can see far. let us wash our legs, so they can run so fleet.

the blunt-eared doggie  has his evening run in the meadow.
what is it moving about in the mist? he must see it, he must investigate.

oh, little children, run, run as fast as you can, so the naughty one does not catch you.

bow-wow. leap, leap. bow-wow. leap, leap. bow-wow. leap, leap. 

do not cry, little one, be quiet now; close the tired windows. the white cloud will snow you with sleep like slow-falling flakes, they will cover you with quiet fleeces, that shimmer like stars.

sleep now, little one, till the next morning comes.

flowing so (actually the title i intended was April 17, 2012, but the sudden sun between clouds messed it up)

little reflections, ripples in reality
diamond shards of a lost moment – we
scintillate and mirror the breath
that shares us all, only

a pure prism of a dewdrop
throws a rainbow more devout.

the logic of love

(offtopic) chaffinch starts his song at 06:43 in the morning.

——————————————————————————–

i chose Christ, not because i feared to die,
but rather because He did not;

i walk with Him not because of religion,
but of companionship,

call it love. i do not know who
loved whom first – i in my finite predisposition, or He

in His infinity.

 

a potted plant… we have talked already

meet my little danish rose. her name is luxemburg. she agreed to live in my room.

she is the kind of rose my mother likes… defiantly yellow. and to me, she reminds of daffodils.