XIX. Limping Sonnet
A cypress wanted to be a sonnet,
and words heard her.
An upright poem. Who was her grandfather?
She grew into a pure state. Silenced
by distances of the winds: by them she measured the world.
Into her cobalt branches growth wove
lovers’ glances, murders, quiet misfortunes.
With these, she carelessly straightened
through draughts, tempests, the sun’s assaults, the painful
greeting of snows. She gave
uprightness to everything, and thus withstood all.
To the deeds of the good and the evil she added
the sentience of wood. And a cypress cone, a bee sting
of heaven, to carry on with the making of poems.