fork in the toad

How still August has become!
The wind has gone elsewhere,
to lift hair and spirits of others.
It takes wind to turn one about,
to change the colors of a mood.

When there is movement in the air,
one may write his desperate words,
fevered words of delirious regard...
words uninvited, words not desired.

But when the world becomes still,
even the longest dreams wear out
like a circus of ghosts gone to bone.

And the dry toad stumbles on pebbles,
searching for water in the godless day.
And time blasts all slow rivers and turns
moving words into thick clay sediment.

It happens that one must bend old eyes
toward a conquering glance that seems
to see value, like Alexander plundering
Persepolis of its rooms of exotic trinkets,
long-gathered treasure in the eerie East.
It happens that a pair of sparkling eyes
might laugh into the dry-cracking soul,
to bring a resonance of samovar comfort.
Or something organic – arteries blending
into those that sigh deep into the heart.

It happens that there comes a fork in the road,
and the path forsaken begins to dim from vision.

Live with movement and always music.
Grow into the fullness of an open rose,
well-watered even during the sirocco.
Don't think of death, you're too young.
And when it comes, it comes to us all.
Know you were loved during my long jump
through amphibious months, earth to dream.