Seasons of Fire, Seasons of Light
Outside Lebanon, New Hampshire
a hundred trees are chanting of fall.
When the wind stirs, gold coins flash
under every tongue. Their fares have been paid,
but the dead still can't cross
to the other side. Bright ghosts, they linger
on the chill New England air.
*
We're still traveling the road from Beirut.
Still remembering how blossoms trembled
in gold clouds on the trees
the morning of evacuation.
We leaned out from the truck, grasped branches,
clung till petals stripped off in our hands,
delicate flakes that stuck a long time
to our sweaty palms.
From the sea, refugees watched constellations erupt,
fire searing the coast. All night the stars imploded.
We fingered amulets into the long future:
The ones who were lost.
*
Here, leaves break and flare from dark wood,
incandescent. A thousand tongues unfurl
into flame, swirl orange smoke to the sky.
Sumac glows, maple breathes fire.
Come winter, skeletons will grid the sky.
After the brilliance of autumn,
nothing will be clearer than the simplicity of loss.
But a hidden current runs through the branches;
tinder of memory and desire
sparks to green flame come spring.
*
In Besharri, the cedars stand watch,
green and steadfast. Years plant themselves,
seeds sprouting from cracks
in the rock above rushing torrents
:
Nahr Qadisha Blessed River;
Nahr Nabaat River of the Springs.
Lebanons hills enfold all the dead,
known and unknown. Memory
trickles down limestone in steady rivulets,
watering the vines that bear fruit,
the trees whose roots lace the mountain.
When the war stilled, bulldozers clearing rubble
found ancient ruins beneath the streets,
fogotten histories brought to vision at last.
Everything lost continues:
a star's light streams past its dying,
ripples widening beyond grief.
*
Now autumn is moving further south.
Sumac and dogwood and burningbush
crest the hills in brilliant waves.
Sassafras and sweetgum fill the hollows.
At mahrajans, immigrant melodies
coaxed from an oud or nai
flow across oak leaves and open spaces,
the way light moves through water
or a voice trembles with memory.
Listeners hum and sway, clap hands
or slip into dance. They know what joy costs,
how knives hollow wood to this resonant shell.
Sojourners, they've paid the fare. They want
musicians' hands flashing like larks,
notes rippling in clear light strains,
roads opening toward the sea.
*
In Lebanon, spring comes early,
almond trees whitening to mist in the sea's soft breath.
Dawn sparks blossoms of dew to crystal;
glints of the newborn sun
arc along branches swollen with light.
Buds break, tongue to green flame.
Travelers rising early to check the weather
find the hills taken by fire.
Published in Cafe Solo Series 16-19 (Spring Summer 1997)
