Oaks

Painting by Palma il Vecchio


OAKS


Oaks, your acorns fall on my lonely hands,
reveal to me how much I want to be touched,
if only touched by a falling acorn.
I lean against bark, its hands touches my neck.
I watch catkins, blackbirds on catkins,
the blackbirds make catkins lean,
touch each other.
Watching reeds touch, I recall touching
your Slavic-Teutonic body in Venice,
Florence, Milan.
I’m not yet in a coffin,
but sitting alone with desires.
I look around, see a barefoot girl on a bench
reading a book. Her hair is well coifured,
not wild like your Slavic Teutonic blonde hair.
I’ll leave soon, departing
from the acorn touch on my lonely skin.
But I won’t miss the acorns
ss much, Gianna, as I miss your touch.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Bedosa