To Colombe

To climb on string thin pathways homeward it's tough, a bit.
Of blood, the road is yellow wherever pumpkins spit
amid fields of beets, onions, and dill, crossed by a goat
and right after the sinkhole, the springs with their chitchat;
then, upon us, like snow flakes, all morning's fabled thrills.
Our feet step on aromas, thumbnail beds on molehills,
while on sun rocks, some roosters cry out the morning's rite.
Autumn is but a pear with pure coolness juice inside.
Swiss cows with snow-white aprons now dutifully moo.
Today's day makes its entrance in the grand mansion too.
The hands of fresh vegetables have veins that are quite clear.
Wearing straw hats, the oxen go out to till but fear
that they will fall asleep if not scratched by some posts.
Their nostrils filled with scents of fresh milk and pasture hosts,
unwillingly the oxen break up into small parts
the field beyond the fences, right there where nature starts.

Translated from Romanian by Dan Solomon