October, November, April

Leaves, like a freight signed for
by a chiffchaff huskily twittering October,
so the grass sends its sap up the trunk
to the branches. In apple's place
on the meadow the touchy hydrangea
that weathers all the water, sweet,
cold and gleaming. In wasp Chanel
Ms Flower Functionary decrees November:
let a storm rise up from memory.
Clover hangs luckless at her lips.
Fogs creep into the pear orchards.
With mittens of sheer desperation
I am an ancient snow squall
making our gong sound: April.


Mirko Bonné
translated by Isabel Fargo Cole