Was there a face in the whirling wood
or a knot in the wick of a weeping candle?
To whom did the words belong, to the clinging bush,
or to the wind, its adversary?
When I leapt down the hill like mountain goat,
were the kinnikinnick berries full of eyes?
Did you sense me searching for you,
up-ending lichen-scarred rocks?
When I sank into sleep,
I awoke to autumn's flicker-dance.
Was it the thought of your shadow
that brought me back to breath?
That plunge into a snow-melt summit lake,
the flat-bottom smooth stones and burning gasp,
were they decreed, so my skin might unfold,
like a curl of birch bark, to caress your hand?
Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...
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