Face to Face

In February living stood still.
The birds flew unwillingly and the mind
chafed against the landscape as a boat
chafes against the bridge it lies moored to.

The trees stood with their backs turned toward me.
The deep snow was measured with dead straws.
The footprints grew old out on the crust.
Under a tarpaulin language pined.

One day something came forward to the window.
Dropping my work I looked up.
The colors flared. Everything turned around.
The earth and I sprang towards each other.

Tomas Tranströmer

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RL