On an early spring day
as mutable as youth and age,
swimming ducks cross the ripples
lifted by wind blowing over a pond,
and around the perimeter circles
a child on a fire-engine-red
bicycle, taking his first ride
with training wheels.
I am at the change of life.
The blood that seeps from me is rusty,
as if it were already old and dried,
a memory of flows long over,
passed from me without regret.
No more cramping pain,
like a fist clenched deep inside
released into newness.
Last week's snow disrupted
the onset of spring,
falling sparely and gently,
almost wistfully. For three days,
it lay on the earth like a white shroud,
soft, heavy, and wet,
and vanished in a morning.
The trees have gone on budding,
a mist of green rises from the ground.
Next to the pond and singing birds,
Shogo Kubo in solemn black
plays Spanish guitar for love and money,
plucking the delicate notes
that fall from his fingers
like drops of water.
A sparrow stares me in the eye,
as if challenging me.
The meditative chords
take my thoughts with them.
The past is like the wind
blowing on my face,
the future like a star not yet born.
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