the philosopher

Oh, this morning is cold bright.
Spring hiding around the corner.
What is the meaning of February
and who are these people drinking
small cups of coffee in a literary cafe?
If déjà vu happened in the next moment,
I'd send reason packing on a long vacation.

This great city of monuments a web of streets.

Oh, language, I thought I knew you.
Logic of grammar, gesture of syntax.
How somewhere in you implicitly
time spills its leafy arabesques 
of world from an antique vase.

But what do I know?

Those two young women at a table,
their eyes the color of Danube water
when late sun brushes the surface
making dreams of light on liquid jade.
Their lips moving on the very edge
of hushed horizons, full lips moving
as a flourish of paradox and revelation.
Spontaneous moments are not cold ideas.
They linger mystic as splashes shimmering.


In spring, I'll purchase a buttonhole bloom,
a sprig of pale sigh from Vienna's woods.



~ TB