he formed the definition of what poet is, in my world. and how to see the world.
Imants Ziedonis. The Master of Clarity. Passed on to the next world on this day.
i am happy he did. and i hurt, as a poet and as a latvian.
let his journey be light.
you will have nothing of my fingertips,
except that touch that does not mean so much,
the day that comes
will flood me out with people.
you will keep nothing from the look i gave,
maybe a wink, a glance, and even that, for once,
and thrice in loneliness , three moments
will pass you, like a memory.
no thing. nothing. no one.
three little bits.
and god forbid they block out all your light.
maybe just those- and maybe just because
they are so small that they are all in sight.
i wish to your feet to walk a meadow bare
and feel no thistle, triply sharpened.
let nothing stay. we did not even touch.
and even then, it wasn’t all that much