If you read this
Everything will already have been undone; broken
dead wood
the leaf fall, falling leaf
abscised, the deadening silence
of empty vessels, gone
single sweetness of spring;
long guiltless moon of summer;
shrinking limbs of autumn.
If you read this
you are reading this
Rush, rushing, run, running from our little heads
Waldo, go tell the gardener!
If you read this
everything will be becoming better
piece by peace, wood by would
dream stream, cloud lover, heart of rain.
I cannot listen
to you reading now
to your crackling tinder,
woodsmoke on the banks of the Susquehanna,
your fevered grace in the air.
I cannot be
between myself
and you,
there is a word for this
in a safe place
behind a wall
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem