Edge of the Woods, The

Hudson Review, The, Autumn 2001 by Bonnefoy, Yves

I

Thorn: you tell me that you love the word,

And there I might have much to say,

Sensing a fervor come alive in you

Without your knowing, that was all my life.

But I have no response: for words

Have something cruel about them, they refuse

Themselves to those who love and honor them

For what they might be, not for what they are.

And nothing stays with me but images,

Almost enigmas, which would turn

Your gaze away and leave it suddenly sad,

Your gaze, that takes in only what is clear.

You see, it's like a morning in the rain,

One goes to lift the water's hem

In order to risk plunging deeper than color

Into the unknown of pools and shadows.

II

And yet it's certainly daybreak, in this country

That staggered me, that you love now.

The house of those few days is still asleep,

And you and I have slipped outside of time.

The water hidden in the grass is dark,

And yet the dew reanimates the sky.

Last night's storm is calm, the cloud

Has put its fiery hand in the hand of ash.