Two Poems

Sharp rips the plow And roots the day into the opened field, And kneads the light and splendor of the world Into the conquered darkness. In summer, between close rows Of waving blades, grow flowers Blooming buried sunlight.

Spread like the palm of a hand Lies at bottom the evening, gold and red. Every man may take as much as he likes Of its beauty, up to the farthest hilltops, As if it were wine and bread Handed out to feed hungry souls And to fill with light the thirsty. I stroll alone on gentle roads into the splendor Bathing my face in a thousand rosy waves; Far away like smoke from a black stack lies my pain. I know it, yet I wander. We may, like expectant children, be blessed.