The little elm stands unfamiliar
in the gray welcoming grass.
Soil, great grandmother,
I will listen here forever to your songs,
making mischief no more, no more. . . .

My friends may come searching,
but will not find me. I am well hid.
At these things in the suburbs
towering like building blocks
I feel secret surprise.

Wind, don’t duck away.
This is a holiday, a beginning.
After all, I have lived happily,
and quietly receive
this boundless gift . . .

translated by Aaron Crippen