Thursday, January 06, 2005

Anne Hébert

Our Hands in the Garden

We got this idea
To plant our hands in the garden.

Branches of ten fingers
Saplings of bones
Cherished rock garden.

All day long
We waited for the red bird
And the fresh leaves
Of our polished nails.

No bird
Nor spring
Was trapped in the lair of our severed hands.

For just one flower
One small star of color
The swoop of calm wings

Just one pure note
Repeated three times

We'll need another season
And our hands must melt like water.

Translated by A Poulin Jr

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