by Robert DeCandido



Beneath pines

To see a rose

a long, cold winter

old truck

question marks

Raking autumn


The wind is whispering
as if it had gathered
voices from some distant
conversation and was
depositing them aroung me
in untidy parcels
or engendering them
from its intimacies with
the scattered and loose
things of the night.

The words are wind-words
of tumbled meaning
spoken in laughs and sobs
and, as they move away,
I hear distinctly
through them,
the footsteps of the wind.

Vision lent us lighten
our gray day with leavened
night of stars.

Beneath pines
cupping hands to catch a
drop of moonlight.

To see a rose,
to cut it and watch it die,
is a beautiful thing.

a long, cold winter
but on the apple tree--
snow blossoms

an old truck in
an old and weedy lot
the fragrance of lilacs

advancing question
marks crossing virgin snow--
little boy’s footsteps.

Raking autumn I
catch, fleetingly,
the scent of spring.

Better than photos
memories of Isako
among cherry blossoms.