My interpreter tried to bring to light
The states that went unstated,
The methods of design and indirection,
The compulsion to explore, reach and arrive,
(Once even reading something in my face.)
Above all else she thought to plow
the specific subsoil, to identify
the bristle of roots, the burning morn of making.
There were moments when an image drew her
in, like trees in the morning singing their birds,
or the incidental orchestrating itself,
a delicate length of irony, a longing.
The original, one may a**ume, is still the original,
She did not transmute it into her own possession
Or something else and other of mine.
She seems to have held the lines with honor as usual,
Their fidelity flowing from autumn to fall.
That said, I question how even so careful, cool a text
Can be turned mournful, defeating all peace of mine.
Had I learned a lesson in translation?