A fence. Chestnut trees. Bindweed. God.
A spiderweb, the hiding place
of first cause, and the thick grass:
between its blades shine the proofs of existence
like negatives drying.
The smell of braids and of wind
plaited in the mouth of the loved one.
Sour, the crushed stem
under the tongue.
Blackberries won’t be
the apple of our discord.
Windflowers by the creek,
a ball gets away from the girl
and ripe, yellow hawthorns
sway softly.
Turn off the glaring sun,
listen to the tale of the seed of a poppy.
A fence. Chestnut trees. Bindweed. God.
by Adam Zagajewski
“A Fence. Chestnut Trees”