Andrea

There's no telling how much green
is buried under this green
nor how much rain under this rain
many are the infinities
that here converge
that from here wander off...

There's no-retelling.....This is the relict
of that........................rrainy relict
the green in which the extreme of green
.....................................is weaving
Perhaps there's-no-telling for a 
deaf movement of light distilling
itself in ephemeral sound, and knowing
.........Perhaps allowing blooming, extending
.........combining
.........member to member, rejoining

---A. Zanzotto.

-----  ---  ___

Was it only a word that fell, a name from your heart, for your heart? Who knows how much your geyness was drawn to my almost-green eyes? To leave behind, turn one's back, as the world rushed by. Is your silence another type of question?

~~  ---  ____

When we were children we nearly drowned; and when we grew up it was no different. This is where I am, with my low-key words for my high-November thoughts. Winter surrounds us, feathers us in. Ice has a  tendency to repeat itself.  The frost on your starred heart. There was another time, quietly breathing within time. There was another green beneath the green. I dreamt it once, rare, overlaying a distant fire. It was the flag of my country, which is something I have lost too, though the more I forget her, the more she grows in me, inwardly.