海市蜃楼的诱惑（外二首）

秦惠敏

留下你的水和绿植，

我想要的是沙漠。

留下你的落叶松，

我无需绿荫送爽。

给我地平线上的荒凉和严酷，

那里的主色调是褐色和棕色。

让我经受酷暑和暴晒，

热浪起伏犹如正弦波。

水的幻觉，

湖面升起。

百里开外，了无人烟，

无边沙漠如露天巨棺。

万物皆定，无可改变，

除了夜间开花的仙人掌，

丝绸般的乳白色花瓣，

是沙漠中出现的灰姑娘，

清香醉人的果皮，

甜蜜多汁的果浆，

如鲜血般红艳，

一夜过后却香消玉殒。

真实得令我难以承受，

被朝阳永久合上。

他离开的那个夏天

草坪上长满了蒲公英。

因为杂草意味着他走了，

她认为它们很美，

像一张金色毯子盖在绿草上。

因为草坪上的杂草意味着

他不再回来，她不再

害怕。整个世界变成了

黄色。不需要再躲在

大山后面，太阳升起，

像拉撒路，温暖着大地。

金盏花在花园里怒放，

太阳花欣欣向荣，像重生的

基督——柠檬色百合，麒麟草，

金凤花以及金鸡菊。蜜蜂，晕乎乎

缘于黄色的诱惑，身着天鹅绒芭蕾短裙

嗡嗡作响。黄凤蝶

扇动着翅膀，像慢动作的鼓掌。

金翅雀，黄鹂，林莺，

没有怀念蓝色，在树丛中演奏着爵士乐。

夜晚，天空中闪烁着道道黄玉色的光。

星星像一个个胆小鬼，从躲藏处

钻了出来。猎户座点亮了

黑暗。电台播放着怀旧金曲，

她跳着舞，伴着《得克萨斯的黄玫瑰》

和《老榆树之恋》，

她跳得有些疯狂，

麦色头发甩来甩去，

像劳作中的磨坊主的女儿，

在她四周，从黄色中转出了金子，

越来越多，不是愚人金，而是真的。

植物园里的四月

在一间阳光房里我想起了你，

在那个遥远的，你飞去的城市里。

为一个奇迹我已祈祷了整个冬天。

冰冷的雨点此时正敲打着窗，

浸湿了我渴望在其中漫步的花园。

黄色水仙花东倒西斜，

郁金香和番红花扑倒在地，

木兰叶子被污水压得低垂。

从紫色杜鹃花里飞出一只金翅雀，

又一只从连翘丛中飞起，

接连不断，至少一打，俯冲下来，

飞过喂鸟器旁，

飞向树木，飞向灌木丛。一群金翅雀——

虽有污渍，却柔软，灿烂，

像太阳撒下的金色碎片。

片片金色叶子飘过玻璃窗，

除了饮食和飞翔，

鸟儿们什么也不想。

四周雨声不停，

鸟儿继续飞行。

不受冷雨阻挡，

阵形之完美如微型过山车，

被空气托着，自由滑落，展翅翱翔。

雨声停了，

在沉闷的寂静中，

看不见鸟翅的扇动，也听不见鸟鸣。

我只看到一群荡秋千的小小表演家，

无视危险，不用安全绳，也无安全网。

我又想起了远方的你，

在冰冷、冰冷的雨中战栗。

The Temptation of Mirage

By Diane Lockward

Save your water and green vegetation.

What I want is the desert.

Keep your deciduous pines，

the solace of shade and shadows.

Give me starkness on the horizon，

predictability of beige and brown.

Let me suffer the heat and burn，

air so hot it undulates in sine waves，

and the illusion of water，

the levitation of lake.

Not one human for hundreds of miles，

eternity of sand， an open-air coffin.

Everything fixed and final，

except the night-blooming cereus，

its creamy petals like white silk，

Cinderella in the desert，

narcotic fragrance of the skin，

sweet， juicy pulp of the fruit，

red as a splash of blood，

for one night only， quench of beauty

more real than I can bear，

closed forever by morning sun.

The Summer He Left

The lawn filled with dandelions.

Because weeds meant he was gone，

she thought they were beautiful，

a blanket of gold over the green.

Because weeds on grass meant

he wasn't coming back， she was not

afraid. The whole world turned

yellow. No longer cowering

behind the mountain， the sun rose

like Lazarus and warmed the earth.

Marigolds bloomed in the garden.

Sunflowers sprung up like born-again

Christians - lemon lilies， goldenrod，

buttercups， and coreopsis. Bees， dizzy

with temptation of yellow， buzzed

in their velvet tutus. Tiger swallowtails

flapped wings， slow-motion applause.

Goldfinches， orioles， warblers，

not missing blue， jazzed the trees.

At night， the sky streaked with topaz.

The stars， those little cowards， crept out

of their hiding places. Orion lit up

the dark. K-ROCK blared golden oldies，

and she danced to the Yellow Rose

of Texas and Tie A Yellow Ribbon，

danced like some wild thing，

her straw-colored hair whirling in circles，

the miller's daughter at the wheel，

all around her yellow spinning out gold，

and more gold， not fool's gold， but real.

April at the Arboretum

In a glass-encased room I thought of you，

far away， in the city youve flown to.

All winter Id prayed hard for a miracle.

Now rain and ice pelted the windows，

drenched the gardens Id wanted

to stroll. Yellow daffodils tilted，

tulips and crocus collapsed， leaves

of magnolias hung heavy with slush.

Out of purple rhododendron the first

goldfinch appeared， from forsythia， another

and another， at least a dozen， swooping

and gliding from thistle seed feeder

to tree to bush. A flock of goldfinches—

tarnished， soft， and brilliant， flying fragments

of gold， as if the sun had shattered.

Leaves of gold floated past panes of glass，

each bird without cares except to feed and fly.

All around me I heard sleet rat-a-tat-tatting，

and still the birds continued their airshow.

They did not suffer from ice， but flew

in perfect formation， a miniature

roller coaster， gliding in freefall，

looping and soaring， cradled by air.

Then the rain stopped pounding， and

in that airless silence no flutter of wings， no

twitter of birdsong. I only saw those small

trapeze artists on wings， flying cordless，

without cables or net， oblivious to danger，

and I thought of you， miles away，

trembling in the cold， cold rain.

April at the Arboretum

In a glass-encased room I thought of you，

far away， in the city youve flown to.

All winter Id prayed hard for a miracle.

Now rain and ice pelted the windows，

drenched the gardens Id wanted

to stroll. Yellow daffodils tilted，

tulips and crocus collapsed， leaves

of magnolias hung heavy with slush.

Out of purple rhododendron the first

goldfinch appeared， from forsythia， another

and another， at least a dozen， swooping

and gliding from thistle seed feeder

to tree to bush. A flock of goldfinches—

tarnished， soft， and brilliant， flying fragments

of gold， as if the sun had shattered.

Leaves of gold floated past panes of glass，

each bird without cares except to feed and fly.

All around me I heard sleet rat-a-tat-tatting，

and still the birds continued their airshow.

They did not suffer from ice， but flew

in perfect formation， a miniature

roller coaster， gliding in freefall，

looping and soaring， cradled by air.

Then the rain stopped pounding， and

in that airless silence no flutter of wings， no

twitter of birdsong. I only saw those small

trapeze artists on wings， flying cordless，

without cables or net， oblivious to danger，

and I thought of you， miles away，

trembling in the cold， cold rain.