Out of an April
The forest smells again.
It raises the floating larks
which were so heavy on our shoulders, upwards into the sky;
indeed, one saw through the branches the day, how it was empty,-
but after long, rainy afternoons
come the gold, sunny
newer hours,
before which the far house fronts flee
all the sore windows, fearful with wings’ attack.
Then it is still. Even the rain goes softer
over the stone’s peaceful, darkening shine.
All sounds hide away
in the shiny buds of the bushes.