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.
