| Summer
Summer, I'm leaving now. And the delicate,
submissive hands of your evenings sadden me.
You arrive devoutly; you arrive old;
and now you won't find anyone in my soul.
Summer! And you will walk by my balconies
with a great rosary of amethyst and gold,
like a sad bishop who would come
from faraway to seek and bless
the broken rings of some dead lovers.
Summer, I'm leaving now. Over there, in September
I have a rose that I entrust to you completely ;
you will water it with holy water
all the days of sin and tomb.
And if from crying, the mausoleum
flutters its marble wings with the light of faith,
raise on high your response, and pray to
God that the light stay forever dead.
It's all too late now;
and you won't find anyone in my soul.
Don't cry anymore, Summer! In that furrow,
a rose dies that blossoms again and again...
-Cesar Vallejo
submitted by Marcia M. Whitlock
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Skeleton of Winter
These winter days
I've remained silent
as a whiteman's watch
keeping time
an old bone
empty as a fish skeleton
at low tide.
It is almost too dark
for vision
these ebony mornings
but there is still memory,
the other-sight
and still I see.
Rabbits get torn under
cars that travel at night
but come out the other
side, not bruised
breathing soft
like no fear.
And sound is light, is
movement. The sun revolves
and sings.
There are still ancient
symbols
alive
I did dance with the prehistoric horse
years and births later
near a cave wall
late winter.
A tooth-hard rocking
in my belly comes back,
something echoes
all forgotten dreams,
in winter.
I am memory alive
not just a name
but an intricate part
of this web of motion,
meaning: earth, sky, stars circling
my heart
centrifugal.
Joy Harjo
submitted by Alessandra Renteria
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