Jan Zwicky




Small song to oneself

The tall sea comes
in the clothes of night,
it comes in the afternoon, brilliant
in the rags of grief.
It raises lace-gloved hands
among the rocks and weeds, and beckons
at your feet.

Do not go, do not go,
you who have loved the trees
which love the air.
You who have had to wait
for dawn before,
that bare light
not yet sweet with birds.