I sit here in fall
watching yellow leaves -
their brothers still tinged with green -
piroette to earth.
Pigeons coo
and peacocks strut by -
the geese do their thing I'm sure
but I avoid those paths and ponds.
I had never seen a duck dive
til I came here
and one plunged after a sinking scrap.

Children babble in the distance
and I think of the young man
more captivated by tiny humans than I -
how his face lights up with wonder -

Sunlight flits through leaves into my eyes
and I reflexively brush at my face
the way he's brushed my hair from his eyes-
All this beauty, but I just want his face.

Church steeples jut unto the sky,
mimiced elsewhere by tall apartment buildings like my own.
They are old reminders of pious times
when only churches and city halls scraped the sky.

I have a balcony on the twelfth floor
and from here I will watch the city change.
The trees and gardens
are already starting to yellow,
to adorn themselves with autumn.
I will watch the leaves fall
and snow briefly grace rooftops.
Then spring will come,
and color will come roaring back.

Spring will come
and I will leave.

I can see the cemetary from my balcony.
They have always fascinated me,
always tugged at me.
There is history there,
etched on every stone
is a stroy snuffed out
leaving only the burnt wick.

A dissatisfied Muse
is a terrible thing-
Yet how can I blame her?
I have been so stressed and tired
I could not listen to her song.

I am here now,
Thousands of miles from home,
Next to a river,
I place where she can sing
as loud as she likes-

The stress remains.
Exhaustion remains.
But I can hear her again.

I am a poet-
to sit in silence
and watch the world-
yet I must experience it all
that I might feed my pen.

To do everything,
to see everything,
it is too much.

That is why we die
with ink on our hands.

Oh the mountains.
I am captured by their beauty.
Their rugged ragged edges
cutting through clouds and sky,
cutting through each other.
They roll on and on towards the sea,
dividing peoples and tongues.

Je suis seule,
mais ca n'est pas grave.
Je suis independant,
et quand je pense
je ne fais pas des erreurs.
Et aussi,
je sais que le bon Dieu
m'aime et me proteger.
Donc, je ne suis pas vraiment seule.

A river's voice
depends on her secrets.

When she has nothing to hide,
when the stones at her feet
can almost taste air,
then she is wild and laughing,
chirping to the skies.

When she is quiet,
but not still,
Oh then listen carefully and watch.
Her ripples will tell of the stones and rocks
that guide her on
(or the smoothness will tell of sand)
but she will give little tell
of her depth,
which can change
with hardly a murmur from her waves.

Do not think she cannot be both,
for she often is,
and solace can be sought
from her myriad of tones-
every single one.

Seule,
in a bed sized for two,
I listened to a new song,
"The Traveler Alone,"
I think it was called.

I didn't finish it.

Overcoming anxiety and fear
to survive in a new place,
in a new language-
I will rise above.
Je peux le faire.

Il y a beaucoup a faire-
mais j'ai beaucoup de temps.
Un pied apres l'autre,
Ca, c'est la facon.
Petit a petit,
on detruie une montagne.
Il y a beaucoup a faire.
Je vais tous faire.

Les feilles commencent a tomber.
C'est l'automne.
Elle embellissent la fleuve
avec leur couleur.
Avec sa brillance,
elles creent une magique,
et je tombe amoureuse.