Four Short Poems
So this summer comes to an end:
Summers, where did you all disappear to?
The boy who with next dark look
saw all those clouds coming up
over the sunlit fields.
And the father, on his blue bicycle,
always riding against the wind
in his bright parka,
enormous barns in the field at dawn,
where is the place where it all
really happened?
The tired old boats,
in the first autumn storm they break
their moorings , and the way they drift,
heavy, taking on water,
melancholic--
as if to philosophize,
as if they meant something--
until they begin to rot in the reeds.
One day life stands
mildly smiling
all at once on the other side of the stream,
and asks:
but how did you get there?
All those who
wash themselves with sand:
desert birds, hermits,
I don't know all of them,
must miss out on something.
What? Not the streaming,
Not what stays put.
The cold? The freshness?