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PAGEEva SKRANDE
THE BRIDE
Like a bride who weeps for her country's exiled palm trees,
I am honey and morning.
I kiss your sea's red intemperance.
For the scroll's pleasure,
I offer corn and her evening.
Your hair belongs to the miners of honey.
Where your hair is the envy of tulips,
sow mountain goats. In the nape of your song,
sew the Seine and her flame's birds.
You for whom the haycarts hovered near the sun.
You who breaks my violets with his gentleness,
who uproots the refugee boats on their way home
with his laughter.
Copyright © Eva Skrande, 2002. All Rights Reserved.