In my memory everything is flecked with gold,
even the moon and the breasts of the singing birds.
Only the white birches are immune, and the black clouds
that drift over the moon, then assimilate into night.
When I feel lonely I like to come here. When I cannot
sleep the moon draws me into her distended embrace.
Moon, mother. Tell me what you have witnessed here or
elsewhere. Tell me where it hurts. Tell me, what should I do.
I have been wandering for many moons.
The corridors of my dreams are dark and lonely.
Of the two birches kissing between the water, I cannot
tell which is the reflection, for both are flecked