The poplar in the little orchard
its breath counts your hours
day and night;
clepsydra filled by the sky
.n the moonlight’s strength its leaves
create black footprints on the white wall.
Along the border a few pine trees and
then marble and beams of light
and people the way people are created.
Yet the blackbird sings
as it comes to drink
and sometimes you hear the voice of a pigeon.
In the little orchard just ten yards
you can see the light of the sun falling on two red carnations
on an olive tree and a bit on the honeysuckle.
Accept who you are. Don’t
drown the poem in the deep plane trees
nourish it with the soil and the rock you have.
The rest of them—dig in the same place and
you may find them.