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PLURAL
Measure me tenderness, distant birds,
readers of clouds, continents,
embrace the sky, explain
this climate to me fully, now,
. . . . . . this evening!
Near the horizon, a few tall trees
applaud, rehearse your spacious rounds
as you zestfully soar, veer and plunge
heeding whispers
. . . . . . from elsewhere.
"The wind,
teeming with birds, rolls
over the branches…" – I hear
the blind sage Argentine’s voice,
. . . . . . see his many
soul-vehicles fly over the
trees, dive, dwell in them, sing
as he strolls through memorial gardens,
through numerous pasts,
. . . . . . reminiscing.
Your song has grown into such a
wide movement, it rejuvenates the air –
it teaches me to sail lightly
on the cool wave
. . . . . . seizing me.
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