Voices on the Wind
Voices in the Garden
by Susan Stevens
Sie befinden sich nicht nur in meinen Gedichten;
du bist in meinem Kopf.
You go to my head,
and you linger like a haunting refrain;
and I find you spinning round in my brain,
like the bubbles in a glass of champagne—
I don’t want to leave any of that behind
—though it will take one hell of a divining rod
to dip the presence of these thoughts underground.
Living (or dying) without you near—willingly, but the ruminations!
Just what is it we get to keep? I plant these poems
in the primeval forest that you inhabit.
Other times we are at separate tables, separate counties.
I heard you on KQED at Moe’s Books in Berkeley
with that terrific accent of yours, reading
about your 48th birthday in Jerusalem
and abortive rescues in high water
put to music, the American experience
you never thought you’d have.
And you are the American experience I’m having
that overtops the pines and birches of Flagstaff, Arizona.