In the Gusts of Wind
Here is the mirror you were looking for,
this dewy glass in which our God reflects itself.
you will say to yourself
in front of the ants bridge at the heart of this wild growth.
Look, a shadow of a snail’s shell covers the mark of the grass
which separates it from the untouched stalk.
See – a wild thyme – maybe the silver trails
of this flower are invisible for the eye
but the sun inlays them in my hands
as a mother of pearl in a frame of a mirror.
We will talk about the truth for hours
but here now everything’s predictable:
the barley’s decision to flower
is a decision to die
here the rain returns to the birds
in the hollows of the road
in the park a baby is feeding on its mother’s breast
and reading the swallows’ flight above our heads
even before it learns to say Mum –
I know what you’re going to say
even before your lip tilts
in the direction we send the dead.
You are right,
in the gusts of wind no one is safe
but the nights keep moving as if nothing is a secret.