Poems belong to foreign languages where understanding falters beneath the rise and fall of stress and fret. How carefully the consonants caress the vowels to cradle sound in their arms and rock them to the drum of meter.
My son told me once, when he was young, how sleep was.
“You go to bed and you are there, then you are not there, and then you are there again.”
That is my most precious possession.
And the next morning to be there again, the resounding resurrection of vitality,
the one high holy song of morning in all the throats of birds.
It is a poem in a language that I do not understand but I know it as surely as the lap of tide against the shore, licking at my footprints. No, I am not erased by the waves of time but rather swallowed up to become a part of that vast and wondrous ocean.