How pleasant are the green
and brown tiles
of my neighbour’s roof.
The branches of his elm tree
stretch across
and make a delightful
composition, the angle
of the roof the exact plane
which the branch needs
to be interesting.
Le mot juste? la branche juste!
And you, my dark spruce,
dominate the left side
of this composition.
You are clannish but authentic
and stand, uncompromising,
for the family of trees.
And all at once the early birds
all break out chirping
as when the bidding opens
on the stock exchange.
Then one,
the long sweet warble
of a finch
Oh stay!
And the n a chant
from down the street,
two boys triumphant,
very small in thick, thick glasses:
“We got a bird nest! we got a bird nest!”
But a younger brother
left behind and clobbered
when the mother was not looking,
saw his chance to sing-song back
(ah, sweet revenge): “But
a woodpecker didn’t make that nest!”
And now I come to you, sky.
What is there between us?
For one, I love El Greco,
who was your painter.
Your blue is clear
as on the first day.
In your presence I am man
and feel as if I
could live forever.