What to make of a season’s end,
the drift of cold drawn down
the hallways of the night,
the wind pushing aside the leaves?
*
The vision of one’s passing passes,
days flow into other days,
the voice that sews and stitches
again picks up its work
*
And everything turns and turns
and the unknown turns into the song
that is the known, but what in turn
becomes of the song is not for us to say
– Mark Strand
SIMON HEDLIN 