pause
to
see
gilt paper pavillions
hear
the band
tangled bootlaces
dudgeon lowered
buttons retrieved
wet,
some dulled,
some
polished
mingled
with
river gravels,
stones...
a single glint, then another...
the light must be just right, just so...
home with a
pocket of treasures
if
the
wind-nips
have
allowed the leaves to move, to turn...
just right, just so...
the shirts
have long since
become
places for words...for ideas...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like the stream of consciousness....here as well as as the creak of coincidence I hear meandering on your walk. I have often marveled at nature's (seeming) capricious order....and how much it doesn't need our ordering or mind our disordering.