West Wind

Little by little
the ocean
empties its pockets—

Language is, in other words, not necessary, but voluntary.

Language is, in other words, not necessary, but voluntary

I am capable of pondering the most detailed knowledge, and the most fastened-up, impenetrable mystery, at the same time.

And have you made inquiry yet as to what the poetry of this world is about?

Here in my head, language
keeps making its tiny noises.

and I thought
how I meant to live a quiet life
how I meant to live a life of mildness and meditation
tapping the careful words against each other

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.

Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?

Well, there is time left—
fields everywhere invite you into them.

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?