I want the world to be quiet enough that I can hear it.
I want to see the drought-choked grass I dropped my lame dog in
to pee this morning grow
Three inches in an hour after the great deluge of Sunday afternoon.
Now it’s sunny, can you feel it, and the street is dry but the grass I swear has grown
three
Inches in the hour I wasn’t looking and I missed it.
I want to see the pale wren again who talked to me from the gutter of this morning
And sounded like a cricket trying to throw his voice.
I swear I turned away for just a second and the grass is longer and twisting like caught
In the middle of an exotic dance. And its green even in early August is the color of June.
I want to take a nap on the green comfy chair of the color of dancing grass
And not the dark green sinus infection chair in my house and not have that damned cat
Yuki
Settle on my stomach purr-snoring. I want the black walnut trees with their spinning
Leaves like a game of chance to make something of the breeze. I want them to reach
Through the walls of my house and say, what did you do to my brother? What did
You do to him and shake me to pieces because they are their brothers’ keepers.
I want a poem to wake me up and tell me it was just a dream.
Translations from the English 
Absolutely stunning poem, in its whole entirety, but also from the opening lines that carry so, so much in them, ‘I want the world to be quiet enough that I can hear it.’, and how it is relatable in so many different ways and in today’s world both so human and so something else.
Thank you so much.
There are days when I feel like those crickets…
Good to hear your voice, Jeff!
Bob! Thanks for listening to this voice. Those crickets…
My ears are always listening for your voice, Jeff.
Holy. Damn.
I made you swear.
A response while walking together in the best part of the evening:
The steeples at the tops of trees house the wren and clang the bells of timelessness which is a word if I say it is a word.
The yellow dry of ochre is delicious in a painting with those dusky summer clouds against something like blue even if it is not the green dancing.
Aren’t your feet longing to break free from their prisons and be naked against the soft warm curls of earth which wait more patiently for their water than we wait for anything.
Then take off your shoes and keep walking.
Who is your keeper?
That cat in diguise could be any of us but so could the breeze that flips your hair gently back from your face and causes you to smile.
Could you tear a page from the book of either of those green chairs and tell me more stories?
I think that you live for that.
I know that I do. I wait for it, like the lame dog waiting to be held.
We are always eachother’s keeper, tapping the other’s shoulder, making sure we’re still awake.
‘Making sure we’re still awake.’ Thanks for tapping my shoulder, Jessa.
Always!!!
I know I will be back to read this again when I can really sit with it. Wow. It knocked me out
Thank you for being so honest