Earthy Elegance: le chasseur de truffes

Reminiscent of the candelabra

that light the dining guest

On the eve of the first full moon

after the crocus bloom.

Evening flights and daytime rambles -

Here I am between two rhythms

The season approaches and it gives

me the greatest pleasure

The trees grow entangled

their brambles overlap

Where the thickens part,

I follow this path

I am returning

to the forsaken places of my loves.

Nimble, curious, resourceful

like the leprechaun

I obey the rules of the fairy tales

Outside a diminutive unmarked door

offers no sign to passerby

For the creator needs his privacy --

inside masses of dried grasses,

feathers and seedpods,

pine cones and pretty stones. 

What emerges from these

ominous roots and bulb

when they‘re at home?

They sleep and think

 I sleep and that

my awaking awakens them

 Their torpor condemns them

to taste nothing

but the musky organic

disregard of grace poetry

that is at our fingers tips.

The phantasmagoria of thirst

and lingering echoes

spurs me to dig deep into my past

Exposing all to see

I unearth a tuber – 
with its earth still clinging to it.

I draw closer to the terrible

mysteries of love,

by doing what I chose to do,

Now I know my rhythm

---The truffle hunter.---

Fin

Earthy Elegance: le chasseur de truffes

Reminiscent of the candelabra 

that light the dining guest 

on the eve of the first full moon

after the crocus bloom

Evening flights and daytime rambles -
Here I am between two rhythms
The season approaches and it gives 

me the greatest pleasure
 

The trees grow entangled 

their brambles overlap
Where the thickens part,

I follow this path
I am returning 

to the forsaken 

places of my loves.

Nimble, curious, resourceful

like the leprechaun
I obey the rules of the fairy tales --
Outside a diminutive unmarked door
offers no sign to passerby
For the creator needs his privacy --
inside masses of dried grasses,
feathers and seedpods,
pine cones and pretty stones. 

What emerges from these
ominous roots and bulb
when they‘re at home?
They sleep and think I sleep

and that my awaking awakens them 

Their torpor condemns them to taste
nothing but the musky organic
disregard of grace poetry 

that is at our fingers tips.

The phantasmagoria of thirst and lingering echoes
spurs me to dig deep into my past
I unearth a tuber– 

with its earth still clinging to it.
I draw closer

to the terrible mysteries of love,
Now I know my rhythm
---The truffle hunter.

Fin

photo credits: !- arredamento giardino epoca , tumblr #3 rodney smith girl in fog, #6  eugenio recunco-snow white, #7 tumblr-tree tureen,#9 truffle farmhand