1931–2015
Face to Face
In February living stood still.
The birds flew unwillingly and the soul
chafed against the landscape as a boat
chafes against the pier it lies moored to.
The trees stood with their backs turned to me.
The deep snow was measured with dead straws.
The footprints grew old out on the crust.
Under a tarpaulin language pined.
One day something came to the window.
Work was dropped. I looked up.
The colors flared. Everything turned around.
The earth and I sprang toward each other.
Translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton.