oh, how i miss my apartment and my kitchen, and my city with its supermarkets and its farmer's markets and its fresh windy straight streets and the crash of the lake against the point and the weight of summer pounding the top of my head between 55th Street and the entrance to the blessedly cool Reg.
Everything is far
and long gone by.
I think that the star
glittering above me
has been dead for a million years.
I think there were tears
in the car I heard pass
and something terrible was said.
A clock has stopped striking in the house
across the road . . .
When did it start? . . .
I would like to step out of my heart
and go walking beneath the enormous sky.
I would like to pray.
And surely of all the stars that perished
one still exists.
I think that I know
which one it is—
which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,
stands like a white city . . .
Ranier Maria Rilke
trans. by Stephen Mitchell
i already miss winter, and the sharp scent of fall, and the sneaking approach of spring. to have traded all of that -the bursting of trees into bloom, and the spread of daffodils and tulips, and the starkness of the trees against a leaden sky, and the incredible bitter cold of a blue-sky winter morning- for the unchanging sun-rain-sun of here --