Winter

The pungent smells of a California winter, Grayness and rosiness, an almost transparent full moon. I add logs to the fire, I drink and I ponder. “In Ilawa,” the news item said, “at age 70 Died Aleksander Rymkiewicz, poet.” He was the youngest in our group. I patronized him slightly, Just as I patronized others for their inferior minds Though they had many virtues I couldn’t touch. And so I am here, approaching the end Of the century and of my life. Proud of my strength Yet embarrassed by the clearness of the view. Avant-gardes mixed with blood. The ashes of inconceivable arts. An omnium-gatherum of chaos. I passed judgment on that. Though marked myself. This hasn’t been the age for the righteous and the decent. I know what it means to beget monsters And to recognize in them myself. You, moon, You, Aleksander, fire of cedar logs. Waters close over us, a name lasts but an instant. Not important whether the generations hold us in memory. Great was that chase with the hounds for the unattainable meaning of the world. And now I am ready to keep running When the sun rises beyond the borderlands of death. I already see mountain ridges in the heavenly forest Where, beyond every essence, a new essence waits. You, music of my late years, I am called By a sound and a color which are more and more perfect. Do not die out, fire. Enter my dreams, love. Be young forever, seasons of the earth.