What you do with time
is what a grandmother clock
does with it: strike twelve
and take its time doing it.
You're the clock: time passes,
you remain. And wait.
Waiting is what happens to
a snow-covered garden,
a trunk under moss,
hope for better times
in the nineteenth century,
or words in a poem.
For poetry is about letting things
grow moldy together, like grapes
turning into wine, reality into preserves,
and hoarding words
in the cellar of yourself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem