Walking Running Crawling

Tomas Tranströmer

Translated from Swedish by Robert Bly

Walk among fallen trees a year after the storm.
Wing-sound. Torn-up roots
turned toward heaven, stretching out
like skis on someone jumping.

Thirsty wasps hum low over the moss.
And the holes, they resemble the holes
after all those invisible trees
that have also been uprooted these last years.

I don’t even have wings. I pull my way forward
in my life—the labyrinth
whose walls you can see through—
walking running crawling.

Read more poems by Tomas Tranströmer by downloading the free Amazon digest version of The Kenyon Review.

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