poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate. -john denham

I didn't have my glasses on....

water

Everything on the earth bristled,

the bramble pricked

and the green thread nibbled away,

the petal fell,

falling until the only flower was the falling itself.

Water is another matter,

has no direction but its own bright grace,

runs through all imaginable colors,

takes limpid lessons from stone,

and in those functionings plays out

the unrealized ambitions of the foam.

Pablo Neruda

killarney, ireland

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