In February living stood still.

The birds flew unwillingly and the soul

chafed against the landscape as a boat

chafes against the pier it lies moored to.

The trees stood with their backs turned towards me.

The deep snow was measured with dead straws.

The footprints grew old out on the crust.

Under a tarpaulin language pined.

One day something came to the window.

Work was dropped, I looked up.

The colors flared. Everything turned round.

The earth and I sprang towards each other.

(Translated by Robin Fulton)

Spring is coming and I thought this would be a delightful poem to share. It’s discussed in an essay called “Metaphor and Authenticating Act of Memory” by Stephen Dobyns, which is in a collection of essays on poetry called Best Words, Best Order.