Triptych

Everything you can imagine is real.
 --Picasso 
by Jerrold Yam

I. Bird
They gather in the park but
are gone by morning, grass
abandoned to its patchwork
of leaves. No aging couples
to entertain. If I wish hard
enough I can imagine roofs
hiding their earnest bodies,
the way winter hides its own
undoing. Come back, when
sun weighs down the earth,
come and see what remains
of the square, the chestnut
and bare oak, the moving on.

II. Tree
What does it feel like to feel
nothing, stranded between a
seed and its grander purpose,
the constant race for warmth
and devotion? Where I come
from, a hollow in the world's
bleak mansion, disappearing
is imperfect surrender. Here
there is existence, soil, rain.
Your snow-dusted branches
tell me happiness is greater
than the sum of fears. Shrug
off your bark and confront
the wind. Then feed me the
same insolent words again.

III. Wind
I cannot accept who you are,
stranger, or speak a language
of invisible omens. I do not
pretend to matter. Knowing
you is knowing the planet’s
exhalations, how one talks
winter into spring. At least
be indifferent to my longing
and intolerant walks home,
my feet bound, fastened to
the ground. Promise to care,
bless, love me the same as
what you give everyone else.