THE SHADOW

One spring day I saw the shadow of a strawberry tree lying on the moor like a shy lamb asleep.

Its heart was far away, suspended in the sky, brown in a brown veil, in the sun’s eye.

The shadow played in the wind, moving there alone to make the tree content. Here and there it shone.

It knew no pain, no haste, wanting only to feel morning, then noon, then the slow-paced journey of evening.

Among all the shadows always joining eternal shadow, shrouding the earth in falseness, I loved this steady shadow.

And thus, at times, it descends among us, this meek semblance, and lies down, as if drained, in grass and in patience.