Still poise
Wednesday, April 16th, 2008By Pablo Neruda
I would like not to know, not to dream.
Who could show me how not to be,
how to live without going on living?
How does water continue?
What heaven do stones have?
Still, at the point where migrating birds
hang in their apogee,
and then fly on in their arrows
to the icy archipelago.
Still, with a secret life
like a subterranean city,
and the days sliding by
like ever escaping drops;
nothing exhausted or dying
on the way to our rebirth,
to our own return to life
in the steps of the buried spring,
of all that lay deep and lost,
interminably still,
and which now swims up from unbeing
to become a branch in flower.
Happy birthday, Rusty.