SEPTEMBER SIXTEENTH Poem by Tua Birgitta Forsström

Night, blue. Night, black.
We so easily think ourselves lost.
But the bells on the small horse's
harness, and one day it'll be September sixteenth,
for all creatures and critters, for every tree!
The soul is shy. A little water and oats are enough
A few sparkling transparent rocks
It's not good to have decay that's far advanced and
to cry a lot or travel to meaningless
conferences, this we know, we who long
have lived in a severe climate.