In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets: drops Likened to music from its many streamsland Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere
Grandpa sits on the porchdaydreaming of, of Something, perhaps winter around the corner; As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come early
Maybe hes thinking about summer: miles and miles And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch; Its worn-out like him.
The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all The foliage, theres a lot of it. The eighty-three Year old man looks about, on his screened in Porch fetches his pipe, lights it up, sucks in a Drag, pushes out some smoke: it drifts and drifts In the corners of the house
Ah! he saysproud of his life eve ntsI say to Myself (Im but ten): No doubt Hes already lived this?
There are many stories he wants to tell, but first he Wants to smell the fresh air, the burning of autumn LeavesHe, never intended to have lived this long of A life, I believe, the old bear, came from Russia in 1916; He accepted lifeadjusted to it
He hears the sparrows, their feathers flapping, faintly Soiled feathers, flapping, covering every inch of their Bodies He notices frost on the nearby tree. It seems to Him, the sun is bouncing off of the ground, he gets bits And pieces of it on his face, it warms it, somehow, Thaws it out
Hes breathing in, frail like,like reading Faulkner, slowly Does it, a ting uneasy. He never left Minnesota once, once He arrived back home from WWI (1918), no need to, he Sayshes happy The fields are clean, animals in the barns; in the city, People getting haircutseverything shutting down. Winter is nowit came last night, a Minnesota winter Is like no other. H e just woke up, his bones chilled. The Wind blows, now it whistles, no foliage to stop its echoes.
There are only a few left like me, he murmurs. The Flavor of winter he likes; warm biscuits, hot coffee, a Smoke from a pipe or cigar. Black branches that were Green a few months ago: its 10-below zero.
He sees the beauty of Minnesota in a glance here and ThereIt makes his brain swim with life; it is nature at its Finest!...
For Kathy [#800 8/14/05
In Spanish Translated by: Nancy Penaloza
Respirando en, Minnesota [un poema
Al comienzo del Otoo, en Minnesota, la lluvia cae, cae, En cubos, cubos Y ms cubos-: gotas Comparadas con la msica de sus muchos arroyuelos de Diez mil lagos; grava humedecida, grava por todas partes
El abuelo se sienta sobre el prtico, soando despierto, de Algo, quizs el invierno rondando la esquina-; mientras las moscas desaparecen, con los mosquitosLas hojas pronto desaparecern, las sombras vendrn tempr ano
Tal vez l esta pensando en el verano: millas y millas y millas y millas de maizales; Su niez ahora, hace mucho tiempo ida, l tararea un himno, una cancin; mirando
La valla metlica-entubada, que l hizo, con tres postes, sobre el Terrapln, Conduciendo los pasos hacia el prtico; Esto esta desgastado como l.
Los vientos en Minnesota huelen fresco, fresco por todo el follaje, hay Mucho de ello. El anciano de ochenta y tres aos mira alrededor, sobre su proteccin En el Prtico trayendo su pipa, encendindolo, aspiran una Rastra, eliminando el humo: esto va a la deriva y llega las esquinas de la casa
Ah! l dice - orgulloso de los acontecimientos de su vida- me digo a mi mismo (pero yo slo de diez): Sin duda l ya vivi esto?
Hay muchas historias que l quiere contar, pero primero, l quiere oler el aire fresco, la combustin de Hojas de otoo - l, nunca tuvo la intencin de haber vivido esto a lo largo de una vida, Yo creo, el viej o oso, vino de Rusia en 1916; l acept la vida- adaptado a ello.
l oye los gorriones, su batir de plumas, plumas apenas Manchadas, batir, cubriendo cada pulgada de sus Cuerpos - l nota la helada sobre el rbol cercano. Le parece, el sol esta saltando en el campo, l consigue aicos y pedazos de ello sobre su cara, esto calienta, de algn modo, Lo deshiela hacia fuera
l esta respirando, frgil como, - como leyendo Faulkner, despacio hace esto, un tintineo difcil. l nunca dej Minnesota alguna vez, una vez que l lleg a casa de WWI (1918), ninguna necesidad, l dice - que el es feliz. los campos son limpios, los animales en los graneros; en la ciudad, la gente que consigue cortes de pelo todo cerrando abajo. El invierno esta ahora lleg anoche, un invierno del Minnesota no Se parece a ningn otro. Justo cuando el se despert, sus huesos enfriados. El Viento sopla, ahora esto silba, ningn follaje para parar sus ecos.
Hay slo unos pocos dejados como yo murmu ra l. El Sabor del invierno le gusta; bizcochos calientes, caf caliente, fumar de una pipa o cigarro. Las ramas negras que eran Verdes hace unos meses-: esto es 10 bajo cero.
l ve la belleza de Minnesota en un vistazo aqu y All - Esto hace a su cerebro nadar con la vida; esto es la naturaleza en su fineza!...
Para Kathy [*800 8/14/05
You can see Dennis Siluk's many books at http://www.bn.com or http://www.amazon.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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