Tími kaldra mána (From Cold Moons), by Magnús Sigurðsson

Easter Window

The morning sun
casts the silhouette

of an oriole
in an apple tree

on the paper curtain
of the east window.

Li Po
barely traced

a more beautiful shape
with his feather.

Sailing

The boat drifts
through the water lilies.

The bank,
lined with cherry trees
in bloom.

Nothing
under the canopy
of the willow

except a mango bird.

Each haul
of the oars brings
us nearer.

Hunter

I can neither read
nor write.

The spear is my stylus.
The water’s surface,
my page.

As soon as the shadow
of a fish appears,
I sign my name
on the surface.

Rain

What I love
most of all
is rain,

when it rinses
dirt off of the leaves

and yellowed grass
absorbs the water.

Until the world
reclaims
the sharpness of its colors.

New Moon

The plum wine
held out until spring.
Nearly a barrel.

And now, we celebrate
its arrival
with poetry and songs.

Now that the Moon
of Growing Grass
is here, and the mountain
pass
can again
be traversed.

Daylilies

The morning sun
glitters

on the crown
of a daylily.

A wellspring
that fills up

and a cruet
that empties

each day.