65.

A Romanesque bridge joins one hill

To another for no apparent reason

And the mystery of this landscape

Is like the unknown territories

Of our bodies. A solitary tree

Blooms purple in the first green of spring.

The winters are not harsh here, not even

For lovers. I suppose there were purple

And green before the solstice: except

For the occasional snow, this is

A garden. But what do I know

About gardens but exile? Once sent

Eastward, is there any turning back?

We move blind among hedges, hills, power lines.