The morning of the 23rd of December, 2013

 

Gradually the world comes into focus as the fog is receding,

leaving its ripe on the bushes and the trees.

 

As yet the neighbouring hills are in complete whiteness,

but in the south-east the light is strengthening, warmth answering warmth.

 

From the woods uphill comes a pattering sound as the cold is washed away:

droplets melting from the tree tops onto the soft carpet of dead leaves.

 

Winter’s fingers are not very strong, the squeezing power is not yet there.

Maybe the squeezing will be done somewhere else and bypass us altogether …

 

Spring tokens everywhere, the eternal optimism of the plants;

and that when last year’s autumn has not yet fully been consummated.

 

Nuts on the ground, apples on the trees, young parsley in the garden,

and the harvest of rocket salad exceeds my wildest expectations.

 

Has the world stopped dying? But how then does it live?

And what about me, who is seeing this, and is thus being this?