Jean Follain
translated from the French by W.S. Merwin
It happens that one pronounces
a few words just for oneself
alone on this strange earth
then the small white flower
the pebble like those that went before
the sprig of stubble
find themselves reunited
at the foot of the gate
which one opens slowly
to enter the house of clay
while chairs, table, cupboard,
blaze in a sun of glory.
From This Art, Poems about Poetry,
Copper Canyon Press, 2003
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