I was going to ardently pursue this day
but you know how these things go.
I am a Hun and the sun is my chieftain
and chieftains are as they appear to their Huns…
So, sunless, I go from being a sleepy angel wearing god’s toga
to a woman in a bathrobe wandering around a well-appointed house.
The transformations are astonishing; like a birch in April
the blood rushes to my head, only it’s not April
and all the signs say don’t go too soon, don’t go too far,
don’t even pass. The birch stands still and these things
are of some consequence in the country. And a domineering
little bird has eaten all the seeds. I think one day
it will build its nest in my abandoned cranium.
I study nature so as not to do foolish things.
For instance, in the worst windstorms
only the most delicate things survive:
a vireo’s nest intact on the lawn next to the roots
of a monstrous tree. Life makes so much sense!
There goes the coach. The coach is of real gold
and the new queen is in it. I like trips, I book them all,
and I’m one of the lucky: my memories are actually finer
than those of those who go. I suspect the queen is going
to the despot’s private party where they shove sweetmeats
down your décolletage and have a goose so slowly roasted
the poor bird cries whenever you pull off a piece
and everyone shrieks with joy. What does the outer world
know of the inner? It’s like listening to wolves or loons…
Here comes the snow, that ought to make the children
happy as parrots flying over a gorge with a bamboo bridge
built like a xylophone and fruit bats hanging upside down
who look at the world and decide to go airy in ardent pursuit
of a plum. But what does the inner world know
of the outer? And will I find out soon? That word,
that word has kept me company all my life.


Topophilia - the love of or emotional connections with place or physical environment