Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

The Green Leaf

I feed you a leaf from

the tree of life. I feed

you the dreams of birds.

The green leaf will grow

inside you until leaves

and more leaves spring

from your breath along

with the song of birds

and from the dreams

you were fed. You will

find the brightest light

in the atmosphere. And

that will be the sun. I

feed you the wind and

the clouds in the sky.

Happily, you will feed on

on green leaves and

the songs of the city,

broken bottles and torn

leaves from the tree of life,

and the clouds will go

south and north, and

rapacious birds will sing,

a flock of them will nest

in the tree of life. Their

fragile song will linger.

They will bring joy to this

world and hidden meanings.

I feed you another leaf

and a slender blade of

grass. I will feed you the

south wind and you will

breathe like the wind.

I will not feed you swords

or the gibberish of

politicians with small minds.

I will feed you leaves.

I will dance with you

as our distances close.

Come with me. I will feed

you birds and bees with

a little honey on the side.

Soft Grass

 

The grass is kind

to my feet.

I walk here with

no sandals

or shoes and it

feels so good.

 

It is soft.  This

lush green grass

feels like I am

walking on

pillows filled

 

with goose down.  I

could sleep here

without a doubt.

If the ants

do not bite me,

I could dream.

 

I wonder how

it feels to

walk on water.

Does it feel

better than this?

This soft grass

 

makes my feet feel

loved.  I walked

on wet sand and

it did not

feel half as good

as this feels.

In Bloom

 

In bloom,

the fruits in the trees.

Sadly,

sometimes they rot like teeth

 

or love.

I sit,

face in agony,

looking down.

 

I can barely feel the air

or the sunlight.

The plums decay

on the green grass.

The sunlight

cannot find my eyes.

 

Happy one moment

with life and with love,

dead to such feelings

the next hour.

 

Knees buckle to the ground,

your hands at your sides.

You cannot pick up the plums.

You leave them there,

the apricots too

because love was killed

the moment

she decided to end it.

 

The poet prefers the color of

pomegranate seeds.  My love

liked the juice. 

She preferred melons

and pears.

 

On rainy days

we ate fruit and made love.

 

Last month before a single tree had bloomed

and snow fell on the mountain tops

our love was like a prison.

We talked like strangers.

She would explode in a rage.

My stubbornness made things worse.

Why do we fight with the people we love.