NOTES OF A SCALE
I
A noon with twilight overtones
from open windows looking down.
Hell! it goes by. The trees
practice green in faithful measure.
It could be what I'm waiting for is
not here at
all.
Yet
the trees have it, don't they?
Absorbed in their own magic,
abundant, hermetic, wide open.
II
The painting within itself,
a boy that has learned to whistle,
a fisherman. The painting
living its magic, admitting
nothing, being, the boy
pushing his hands further into his
pockets, the fisherman
beginning the day, in dew and half-dark,
by a river whose darkness
will be defined as brown in a
half-hour. The painting
suspended in itself, an angler
in the suspense of daybreak,
whistling to itself.
III
Where the noon passes
in camouflage of twilight
doesn't cease to look
into it from his oblique
angle, leafwise,
'. . . maintains dialog with his heart,'
