°µÍø½ûÇø

TENDERNESS

Now,

as the rain bends over the puddle,

and the day rusts

dropping towards night

like a dry leaf,

as the sharp wind

spreads about,

I fear the ice

and its glassy pavements,

the snow as it begins

to roughen,

I fear the cold of winter,

growing transparent from the depths,

for tenderness wells up out of me

like a first snowdrop

unfurling into your sleet,

flowering in your

hard inclement season.

(´Ú°ù´Ç³¾ÌýThe Strange Woman, 1994

translated byÌýJames Naughton)

Ìý

FROM A WALK

In the morning villa quarter

dogs bark in the gardens

various great flowers

blossom.

Ornamental and fruit trees

peacefully, broadly spread.

Houses, old and new,

comfortable, are silent.

Sunny curtains

are motionless.

I walk in the streets,

I meet

nobody.

Everything is in order.

Ìý

SUNFLOWER

Ruffled in October´s

satin gloom

it quivers by the white

wall; so suddenly

and everywhere it turns dark.

You see it, as it

bends, supple

and honeyed into quiescence:

the light is broad,

and scented.ÌýÌýÌýÌý

EARLY EVENING

Ìý

He goes home.

In the quiet hall

you do not reach out your arms, hot,

the long honeyed dress

sadly pours down you;

into the room falls

a bright scent,

the cups are clean, cool

the table, in a moment

you are not clear: did he leave,

or did you miss each other?

(from Sunflower, 1998,

translated byÌýJames Naughton)