Green, the motionless march
of pines queuing on the slope,
growing vertical/ detecting the gravity/
not aware of the gravity/of being trapped
when fires burn wide.
Green, the bud that prods the soil
the new leaf that welcomes the morning mist,
the curve where the dewdrop
finds its fall, rolling down to quench
the thirst of dry land.
Green, wearing so many shades
and fancy hats and
the everchanging clothes of the forests
because there’s not only brown
in wood.
Green, the fingerprints left by the seeds
becoming tips that touch the clouds
lush heads rising from the side of the mountains
in neat rows, following
an intimate geometry of giants.
Green, succumbing to the heat,
slash-and-burn, wildfires
razing the coat of the earth
where all green starts
where the biosphere sprouts.
Red, black, smoked jade.
Green, I want you green.
—
Paola Caronni is a poet and translator. Her poems have been published in print (American Writers Review; Wisconsin Review, etc.) and online literary journals (The Curator; The Wild Word; From Whispers to Roars; New Asian Writing; and elsewhere). Her first poetry collection Uncharted Waters (2021) won the Proverse Prize 2020 and received a grant from the Hong Kong Arts Development Council. Paola has just relocated to Italy after 29 years in Asia.
