ALL THAT WE NEED

ALL THAT WE NEED

Is a house with a garden all that we need?
Small fireflies along the riverbank
in summer twilights.

From the first ray of sun
to the evening’s descent,
one bird to brighten our day
and sing.

Perhaps a river beside the house,
a stream somewhere behind it,
a path leading to the sunlit hill?

Is it the early morning in my father’s field,
when the wildflowers awaken
and build their castle out of fragrance,
where, for a brief moment, two old friends meet—
the dew and the grass,
pressed down by the staggering steps of a hedgehog,
a grass snake here and there,
only to say it is not asleep,
and a whole world of grasshoppers
and other little mischief-makers,
ready for new, burning summer imaginings.

Is that all that we need?

Corn freshly watered
in the neighbor’s garden,
trodden earth,
and children’s footsteps from the night.

Somewhere, roasted corn still gives off its scent.

The evening smells
of all the colors of spring
and of a watered garden.

Melons and watermelons,
a basket filled to the brim,
look like a fairy tale
from some distant childhood of ours.

The world that existed in my childhood,
in morning and in dusk—
where has it gone?

On the stone path, no ferns grow,
no hyacinths, no nasturtiums.

On the stone path, not even a firefly wanders in;
there, snakes and lizards
are the only inhabitants.

Is love all that we need,
and can a human being stand alone
upon the earthly plain?