Transtromer

Through the Forest


A spot they call Jacob's marsh
is the cellar of the summer day
where light sours to a drink
tasting of old age and slums.

Here the weak giants stand entangled
so thickly they cannot fall.
A broken birch tree molders
standing upright like a dogma.

From the deeps of the forest I rise.
It lightens between the trunks of trees.
It rains over my roofs.
I'm impression's water spout.

At the edge of the forest the air is mild. --
A big fir, dark, back turned,
its muzzle buried in the soil,
is drinking the shadow of the rain.



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