SPRING

Wind in almond blossoms.
Ants on limestone mountains.
Cézanne’s bones in red earth.
Countless vines on red earth.
Black wine on oak tables.
They drink love or hate as
The old plane trees blossom.
They drink coffee or pastis
Under the blowing young leaves.
Under feathery pines,
On red and gray hillsides,
Hidden from the mistral,
Two by two they make love.
In red sand pits, squad by squad,
Soldiers shoot at paper men.

— Kenneth Rexroth (1905 – 1982), American Beat poet and translator