Es Tarde, No Sabias

A new rising, charged by the voice of the dawn / singing,
Over whom spires of memory, / sun-tinged breaches, capture /
Pools of light, glinting and bedewing / fresh peaks.
Now is the time for a sprig of parsley, / willow flowers
Blush on the hedges; every corolla / opens in voice,
Because it has spoken, entered into the globe / of wild speech.
Might every song be a mother, / and might I stand here with you, Mother,
Though we are distant, split by the lapping / land, still banks
Of sand, and mountain tides. / When this comes, when I return
To you in the milk-sapped leaves / and among the amber of blooming fruits,
When my solitary flight is enough / – wing-tips over the alps –
Then we will enter the groves, / brimming with acynthus, so far!
I can see them on the other side / of the mirror.