Dear one, here I am again, still always addressing
you; and here’s the season’s changing light, the juncture
at which the past and future are once more equinoctial.
When were they not so? Meaning to say, there is no need
to make it harder on ourselves, no need to agonize unduly
over those who walk past in such cold, glittering beauty—
oblivious to the soul perched on the farthest twig, brown
and insignificant, damp and trembling slightly in the wind.
You won’t believe me if I say it will get easier; I can’t
blame you. Yet I know wet tinder catches fire, eventually,
burns no less brightly for its numerous delays. Now, gray light
and rain; but blow, wind; scatter your auguries for change.
In response to small stone (151).