by Selma Meerbaum-Eisinger
All is still. A flock of fallen leaves,
golden brown, soak in sunlight.
Chalky clouds hang from the cobalt sky.
Crisp, green pine—the treetops
needle skyward and copper beeches,
wiry, brazen, listen:
an eagle floats overhead,
while they stretch higher and beyond.
Sometimes, a lonely bench, and here:
a little plot of grass, half-frozen,
the sun has chosen to adore.
Copyright ©:translated by Carlie Hoffman
Last updated January 10, 2023