Because what happens will never happen,

and because what has happened

endlessly happens again,

we are as we were, everything

has changed in us, if we speak

of the world

it is only to leave the world

unsaid. Early winter: the yellow apples still

unfallen

in a naked tree, the tracks

of invisible deer

in the first snow, and then the snow

that does not stop. We repent

of nothing. As if we could stand

in this light. As if we could stand in the silence

of this single moment

of light.