The Overflow
Each year the mountain fades
Trees, once full of leaves,
Blur to green
Time takes my eyes
Rakes my mind
Ears fail to catch whispered words
Strain as they will
I am so full
My senses tells me,
“Enough of what you hold, time to let go.”
I must learn to overflow.
Halfway through your life,
death turns up and takes your pertinent measurements.
We forget the visit. Life goes on.
But someone is sewing the suit in the silence.
Questions grow:
What will I see when I see dimly?
Needle and thread in hands thin and bony
What will I hear when I hear faintly?
On the breeze, the soft sound of sewing
What will I remember when my memory fades?
The feeling of dust beneath bare toes
From dust I came, to dust I am going.
Bold verse is from Tomas Transtromer’s Black Postcards #2
If you haven’t read Tranströmer, I highly recommend the collection The Half-Finished Heaven translated by Robert Bly.
