just before winter
when I try to name the color of grasses,
how I feel of their beauty,
there is no word.
I think of the time before there were words,
when you would know morning mist by the feel
of your loved one's skin and hair,
and when someone came from the forest of dry leaves
you would know them by their scent
even if they carried no wood.
Or the heat of their body skin in summer.
Or if they came the winding way
down from the mountains
they would be covered in cloud
returning to the fold,
or if they had gone farther, to the ocean,
you'd know them by their far-seeing eyes,
and when some travelers return
and are shining with light
you know, without saying, that they have been
in touch with other worlds.
I have no wealth to speak of
other than this,
all this, just to praise the dry grasses
and their color that can't be spoken in words.