Spring

by Jure Jakob


Spring

Mornings follow mornings, days repeat them

as though they want to merge into one vast morning.

The corner road by the playground turns from fresh shade

and pulls up directly in front of the sun.

Each morning this happens a little bit earlier,

soon, perhaps by tomorrow, it will be too early even

for the road & it'll wake caught in sunlight.                         

 

It's worth starting the day early.

Wearing a glove of dreams we skated across

icy tracks to live & sleep through the darkness. 

To open the windows & air the room. In the morning

cold air positions itself on all fours between

the floor and the ceiling & holds the entire day upright.

White cherry tree, last snowdrops, new ball in the courtyard.

 

There's no nature mornings can't find.

Nothing is unnatural. Work flows from one morning

to the next, the postman rehearses his way address by address,

until gradually he empties the gold-blazing bag

and rests by the low wall of the fruit orchard. The bee doesn't notice him.

Children from the kindergarten, on their walk, make a ring round the parked bike

like a delightful forecast for the next day morning.

 

On flexible string, taut from the early morning

washing hangs, socks walking in the wind, tottering

trousers approached by noon falling almost

into a forsythia bush. That rare connoisseur of morning,

the invisible cuckoo, lays out trap eggs and sings

from the tree opposite. The echo is a fleck of time

that passed from morning, and came back on a moment's delay.

 

Throw the ball toward me. I'll chuck it back.           

No matter if it runs out onto the road. It's worth the try.

The cherry lit in the darkness sheds blossom all the way to daylight,

and in the morning white the ball lies by the edge-wall and looks

like an egg. Next to it cold air is parked.

Returning from the sunny walk, one of the children

finds it & carries it to the playground & everyone follows :

 

It's never too early to repeat the exercise. 

Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Stephen Watts

Pomlad

Jutra sledijo jutrom, dnevi jih ponavljajo,

kot da se želijo spremeniti v eno samo jutro.

Cesta na vogalu pri igrišču iz sveže sence

zavije naravnost pred sonce.

To se vsako jutro zgodi malo bolj zgodaj,

kmalu, mogoče že jutri, bo prezgodaj celo

za cesto, zbudila se bo zasačena v svetlobi.

 

Zjutraj se splača dan začeti.

Preživeti in prespati temo, v sanje

orokavičeni smo predrsali ledene steze.

Odpreti okna, prevetriti sobo. V jutru

se hladen zrak z vsemi štirimi vpne

med tla in strop in drži cel dan pokonci.

Bela češnja, zadnji zvončki, na dvorišču nova žoga.

 

Nobene narave ni, ki je jutro ne bi našlo.

Nič ni nenaravnega. Delo teče od jutra

do jutra, poštar vadi pot od naslova do naslova,

dokler zlagoma ne sprazni zlato žareče torbe

in počije ob škarpi sadovnjaka. Čebela ga ne opazi.

Otroci iz vrtca na sprehodu obkrožijo parkirano kolo

kot posrečena napoved jutrišnjega jutra.

 

Na gibki vrvici, napeti od zgodnjega jutra,

visi perilo, nogavice hodijo po vetru, v majavih

hlačah se približuje poldan, skoraj bi zgrmel

v grm forzicije. Redka poznavalka jutra,

nevidna kukavica, nastavlja jajca in zapoje

z nasprotnega drevesa. Odmev je droben hip,

ki je minil od jutra, vrnjen z neopaženo zamudo.

 

Vrzi žogo proti meni. Zalučal ti jo bom nazaj.

Nič hudega, če bo ušla na cesto. Splača se poskusiti.

V temi prižgana češnja trosi cvetje vse do jutra,

v zgodnji svetlobi žoga leži ob škarpi in izgleda

kakor jajce. Zraven je parkiran hladen zrak.

Ko se vračajo s sončnega sprehoda, jo najde eden

izmed otrok. Odnese jo na igrišče, vsi mu sledijo:

 

nikoli ni prezgodaj za ponovitev vaje. 

Jure Jakob, iz zbirke Delci dela, 2013