X
I look at the opaque red of the passion-flower coldly 
and at these bright odorless flowers 
that grow so closely. The poppies are still most beautiful
(that grew in the fields before any gardener) 
through whose yellow translucent petals
the sun shines 
as they stand straight on the slender stems,
native to the soil and sun—
a bright democracy, a company yet each alone.



XI
The bush beneath my window has grown 
until now a twig 
is reaching over the sill 
as if to show 
its cluster of delicate leaves.
You are beautiful, leaves, and silent: 
you ask nothing—
neither food nor a fee 
nor even that I look at you.