Summon the forest the budding the sap
that hems costly handicrafts
under the garden’s gentle bonds inquire
with what patient love
morning’s bright threads were woven
whose undulating curtains hewn on the hills
abjure all suspect forms
urbanized or transmitted
by imperfect literary forms
of assimilating the world espy
this nakedness of things that give in
to the liquor of their own creation the slow
growth roots
shades the grass’s unpredictable
attempts the lazy illusion
of clouds that wander off
and suddenly rain over the field
a cold fan of clear water hear
this mute message blown by
this minute: live invoke glimpse invent
but ask nothing.
Fróes, Leonardo “The Catcher in the Persimmons”. Ottawa: FlipSide, 2017. p.07. Translation by Rob Packer.