Trees

If the trees only knew
the color of the sea,
they would rip off their leaves
and paint it all again.

Orlando González Esteva

Perhaps if the foliage itself,
intoxicated in a waterfall,
were to head for the bay
then stop to lend its clothing.
Or if the fasting waves
and their color refused
to awaken or even see
their dreams in floating bliss.
Another would be the hue,
if the trees only knew.

The sky, after all,
hides before the star,
disguises its quarrel
in the storm and mud
and feigns its joy and sorrow
however it can.
For the sky, to know or not to know
is all the same,
since it always beholds clearly
the color of the sea.

If your garden's trees
understood my plight,
they would weep at the sight
of the gift of your embrace,
and if you were to grace
me with flowers and their dew
and the rain of your desire
under the shade of day,
the branches my happiness needs
would rip off their leaves.

The shining sky in the west
returns me to the past;
there are lights I haven't seen
that suddenly blind me.
A breeze from deep at sea
touches my face so lightly.
Naked, side by side, and then
body and thought are here
despite the power of fear
and paint it all again.