of maize and thin, transparent scurf,
the occasional low thorn tree,
and now a windmill thawing
quietly - each token of an unseen
motion as of seasons undersoil,
a quickening motion no less in the people
we pass, the Sotho men with sticks,
the shrouded figures huddling over fires,
and children running, hands in pockets
against the cold, their bare feet falling
softly on the light dirt margins
of the road . Behind them,
like struck chords, the fences tremble
where they clambered through,
a splinter of the sun on every barb .
Judith Yamamoto
YOUNGEST BRO"rHER
he was always reading,
the sea serpents rising again out of a Trojan Sea,
and Mother let him bring his book to the table ;
over the two bones of the forearm,
the watched and gentle skin
in the marble lights of winter, the horses were loosed,
running the crystal track,
the snow ruins;
the lanterns of their great eyes
stalling the fixed stone
in springtime, they came back to the barn
wilder for a while
