To make a phrase numismate, it was
A day of days. My darling ran
Under the boughs of covert loss
Until God made his presence scan,
Like a metre of bright wave, the sin
Of our hearts, and I could count each blotch
Of love as I gazed upward through the din
In my breath hiding from His scotch -
But He had kind words rain on me
And the sun came out and healed the welts and hurt
Till my sadness slipped down the vast tree-
Trunks, and fell like stockings on the dirt
And slaps of time, and grubby days when He
Was absent. My son says He lives in every tree.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem