The Face
On my walk along the old lane I came
across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he has to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he's got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery—they haven’t
been married long—they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours; he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree—silvery in winter light—
is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.
Senryu
God created life,
Darwin came, explained it
No big deal
Lisbon Winter Night
From my window I see down into a
canyon,
a dry river with cars moored to its banks.
From under one of them a cat runs across,
is it black or grey ? Does it matter?
Where the trash bins are, do I hear a squeal?
From the opposite building a few windows
emit ligh—they are kept on for the dying
and for those who cannot sleep.
Eventually the light disappears and as night
continues to dawn only the hum of silence
remains.
