JACOBSEN, Rolf

It Was Here

It was here. Right here

beside the brook and the old rosebush.

A late spring this year, the roses are still pale,

almost like your cheek

the first morning beyond death.

But it's coming,

only the light, only the fragrance, only the pleasure

won't be coming.

But it was here,

it was an evening with a moon,

the brook trickling,

like now. Take my hand,

put your arm there.

And we'll set out

together in the summer night,

silently, toward

what isn't.

When They Sleep

Al people are children when they sleep.

There's no war in them then.

They open their hands and breathe

in that quiet rhythm heaven has given them.

They pucker their lips like small children

and open their hands halfway,

soldiers and statesmen, servants and masters.

The stars stand guard

and a haze veils the sky,

a few hours when no one will do anybody harm.

If only we could speak to one another then

when our hearts are half-open flowers.

Words like golden bees

would drift in.

-God, teach me the language of sleep.

Guardian Angel

I am the bird that flutters against your window in the morning,

and your closest friend, whom you can never know,

blossoms that light up for the blind.

I am the glacier shining over the woods, so pale,

and heavy voices from the cathedral tower.

The thought that suddenly hits you in the middle of the day

and makes you feel so fantastically happy.

I am the one you have loved for many years.

I walk beside you all day and look intently at you

and put my mouth against your heart

though you're not aware of it.

I am your third arm, your second

shadow, the white one,

whom you cannot accept,

and who can never forget you.