« At North Farm
Somewhere someone is
traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed,
traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert
heat, across torrents, through narrow passes.
But will he know where to
find you,
Recognize you when he sees
you,
Give you the thing he has for
you?
Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are
bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to
the rafters.
The streams run with
sweetness, fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it
enough
That the dish of milk is set
out at night,
That we think of him
sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with
mixed feelings? »
Labels: cita