In the white
pasture of the sun,
fruit spills
like chunks of gold.
The gold comes
from Brazilian lands,
from the willowy
darkness of Brazil’s serenade.
My child, they
send a clustered afternoon slumber.
I allow the
glorious abundance to roll:
colors wheel
with fragrance.
Crawling, you
pursue the fruits
as though they
were little girls,
scattering in
all directions:
melting loquats
and hard, tattooed
pineapples . . .
And all the
things exude the aroma of Brazil,
breast of the
world which they suckled.
Although not
enjoying Atlantic water,
nevertheless,
they could overflow its skirt.
Touch them,
kiss them, whirl them,
and learn their
faces.
Dream, child,
that your mother
has ripened
features;
the night is
a black basket
and that the
Milky Way is an orchard.
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Page last
edited February 14, 2000
by: PhoneBoy