by Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger
Thin twigs like otherworldly veils
emerge from slender birch trunks
and the silence, ceremonial,
as if shielding the sky
from the rapture of birdsong.
Muddy, brown paths. And a blossoming tree
discovers this new world.
Grass barely sprouts.
All the firs re-green
and a papery, yellow butterfly
dares to rest on a sun-drenched bench.
This does not suit a green fly at all:
isn’t the sun only for me?
Only tips of the blackthorn whisper: No!
Copyright ©:Translated from the German by Carlie Hoffman
Last updated January 10, 2023