This prickly rush, with whose spines
I stitched my tattered youth;
this weeping willow, played
by the wind on my secret ramblings;
this purple loosestrife, whose
pink flowers I placed on
a table for my love; they all
call to me along the path: Come,
join us, come, fade
with us into the moist morning mist.
"Don't wait for me," Icall out to them from my groaning memory,
"I am on my way, I'll be there
soon." And on my return from the stream bank
I know: They will wait,
I will come, my aging heart
is already there, with them, anticipating
me always by a few steps.
©09/09.06 Elisha Porat
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner