This is what I Asked For,
Something fragile as a crocus,
lighter than a blown cloud.
I wanted to look out and remember winter
a last time, and then go on with my plan
of greeting the first leaves, but with some regret.
After all, at the beginning of April, who can believe
the old rumor of frost?
I want to recall all summer the deep whiteness of that sleep
like a cool hand on my forehead
while I wade through the green jungles of August,
while I lie in the grass, in the thick heat, as the crickets start
(Author Unknown)
No comments:
Post a Comment