one branch of chrysanthemum holds out against frost.
Good sights of all the year I’d have you remember,
but especially now, with citrons yellow and tangerines still green.
I am a boat
You were the wind.
Was that the direction I wanted to go?
Who cares about directions
with a wind like that!
Olav H. Hauge
Where are you today
I do not know.
Eagles where passing trough God above us.
I slip myself in memories, so long since then.
On the old summits where sun comes up from the Earth,
Your sight was so blue and very high.
Legendary rumor is rising from the fir trees.
All understanding eye was the holly mountain lake.
In my inner self it’s talking even now about you
Form my eyelashes death streams are dropping out.
I should cut the grass,
I should cut the grass where you stepped.
With the denying scythe on my shoulder,
In the last sadness I am girding.
Words would sleep,
if we let them,
and make no sound; they
would hear us cry the end
hear us dead and leave
no mark, no meaning.
would steal our secrets
and tell us none
of their own. So,
wordless, we must talk
of things we do not
the earth verbatim
for music, for sound.
should we fingertip
each sound ungraciously,
the silences would rebel.
No doubt that art,
are nothing to
nature; who knows
cares for us at all?
by James Strecker