Friday, April 20, 2012

Trees laden with yellow cassia
laburnum trembling awake
To birdsong
And someday perhaps I shall write of these
In happy, complete and content stories,
plump and placid with ever-afters.


Until then I find delight
In giving shape to
The sly and crafty, shrewd and cunning,
Shortcut prone, gritty underside
The city trembles when they walk.
Women with rich pasts and edgy tempers
And smiles like steel
Stories that waft in with the wind.

much as you’d like to believe otherwise
When I dot my I’s and cross them t’s
Tis with glee, at least, or a smile.

4 comments:

norrbu said...

Austere di: does wisdom make us happy or sad? It's hard to tell from your poem.

austere said...

it gives you space. to consider whether happy or sad, and not instantaneously so.

norrbu said...

but the absence of sadness - isn't that good enough. Given that happiness is impermanent anyway.

austere said...

:) absence of sadness, presence of being-presentness... I'm shifting to Bhutan someday where happiness is mandatory.