before i am ever anyone else’s.
the wind is a Lady with
bright slender eyes(who
hills without any reason
(i have spoken with this
indubitable and green person “Are
You the wind?” “Yes” “why do you touch flowers
as if they were unalive,as
if They were ideas?” “because,sir
things which in my mind blossom will
stumble beneath a clumsiest disguise,appear
capable of fragility and indecision
—do not suppose these
without any reason and otherwise
roses and mountains
different from the i am who wanders
imminently across the renewed world”
to me said the)wind being A lady in a green
dress, who;touches:the fields
our teacher asked this question every fall:
If there were a fire in a museum,
which would you save,
a Rembrandt painting or an old woman who hadn’t many
years left anyhow? Restless on hard chairs
caring little for pictures or old age
we’d opt one year for life, the next for art
and always half-heartedly. Sometimes
the woman borrowed my grandmother’s face
leaving her usual kitchen to wander
some drafty, half-imagined museum.
One year, feeling clever, I replied
why not let the woman decide herself?
Linda, the teacher would report, eschews
the burdens of responsibility.
This fall in a real museum I stand
before a real Rembrandt, old woman,
or nearly so, myself. The colors
within this frame are darker than autumn,
darker even than winter — the browns of earth,
though earth’s most radiant elements burn
through the canvas. I know now that woman
and painting and season are almost one
and all beyond the saving of children.
이 좁은 방의 낮은 천장이 하늘이란 게,
내가 너의 우산이자 비란 게.
I’m sorry. No matter how many times I say it, I’m still sorry
That this low ceiling of this small room is our sky,
That I’m not your umbrella, but your rain.
a graveyard in my mouth
filled with words that
have died on my lips.