Walk

…so many chickens and a small white dog
and sky colorful and bright—
The bare tree looks so ghostly.
The gray houses, dispossessed of strength—
Tiny raindrops pearl the branches
and the distant mountains bathe in solitude.

The fields are dark brown clods
and here and there, bits of yellow green,
and little sparrows, stupid and cheeky and bold,
dart through air like children running.
Far away, the city with its towers,
with its storm of joyful houses

like an old picture from a fairy tale.
The air is quiet, and filled with a longing
that makes you wait for the blue larks
and imagine sailing in a slender boat.

Here are white asters, white and pure,
and there a head of cabbage, small and young.
They are the forgotten parasol
in the middle of a snow-covered street.
A rabbit sprints past and cannot believe:
Summer begins again.

11.29.1939