Crossing the Carpathians with you–for my mother

Crossing the Carpathians with you

for my mother

 

 

Mountains and us clothed

In soft white fog,

Suddenness of cliffs.

 

You and I carve walking sticks,

Bursts of sun dust

Thousands of yellow and violet flowers.

 

Red and white polka-dot

Mushrooms among trees,

Strong smell of ferns and cones.

 

Stones in pots on our backs

Warnings to black bears,

We gather forget-me-nots.

 

Distant curves

Of snow and peaks

In the white of the moon.

 

Shepherds’ rain fast and thin

We empty the boots of water,

A bear licks out pots.

 

I know what it means to go

Anywhere with you: you are

The moss on which I sleep.

 

From Lilies from America

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