And it grows, the vain
summer,
even for us with our
bright green sins:
behold the dry guest,
the wind,
as it stirs up quarrels
among magnolia boughs
and plays its serene
tune on
the prows of all the leaves —
and then is gone,
leaving the leaves
still there,
the tree still green, but breaking
the heart of the air.
One spring day I saw
the shadow of a strawberry tree
lying on the moor
like a shy lamb asleep.
Its heart was far away,
suspended in the sky,
brown in a brown veil,
in the sun’ s eye.
The shadow played in the wind,
moving there alone
to make the tree content.
Here and there it shone.
It knew no pain, no haste,
wanting only to feel morning,
then noon, then the slow-paced
journey of evening.
