Log Cabin Chronicles
Old Friends
ELISHA PORAT
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," I call 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.
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner
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