Songs to Guiomar

I

I could not see
if what your hand,
Guiomar, might contain
was a yellow lemon, or strand
of daylight in golden skein.
Your mouth smiled at me.
I asked, "What will you share?
Fruitful time your hand chose
from all that your garden grows
in its prime?
Or a fair
stiff evening's pointless time?
Gold magic of hours when you
are gone?
Copy in still
water? On fire from hill
to hill, the true
dawn?
Does love break in two
the spool that used to hold
its twilights, now grown old?

–Gerald Friedman

Gerald Friedman grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, and now teaches physics and mathematics in northern New Mexico. His poetry has appeared in various magazines, and his translations from Machado have appeared in Ezra, Dialogist, RHINO and Poet Lore. You can read more of his work at https://jerryfriedman.wixsite.com/my-site-2