The Waking

--Arthur Sze

Blue plums in the pewter bowl—

may they wake wet in the earth the wren singing

and cull the sweetest violet.

But the children sleep secure in blankets.

I climbed by spinning arms and legs against walls,

awakened waist-deep in the water-well;

wrestled the black bull before an audience,

beat the wind without wings,

paced the steeds along pampas grass . . .

In the morning chill

I breathe moths in my cupped hands.