Ein Feld ist, einsam, drauf vier Bäume stehn...

A field with four chance trees –
They’re chestnut and singly,
Looming here and elking there.
The Sun comes up on them and the wind with it
The wind is coming up on all the neighbors, there,
The nearer you are on the wind to God – the field has a place for you
If you give a ween eye to the field, the right kind of eye,
Maybe a boy’s eye, there, on the brawny vegetables...
What do the trees know about the down-after
And the nonce places and the double-ones?
Who does he pike his plough for
And in whose furrow does he turn it,
In whose grackley humus?


Getting Ready

I liked to go out sometimes
...