I could have said: I stepped from the bus.
I stood on the dusty roadside where
a young maple and dog-roses grew.
But really, I leaped into the silence,
and there was no land, no surface to step on.
The silence closed over my head:
I saw how the bus had just departed,
and sinking deeper and deeper
I heard only my own heart beating,
and in the rhythm of it, I saw my own street
passing with all its well-known signs:
lilies-of-the-valley and Equiseti Silvestres,
Oxalis nearly in flower,
and anthill covered by a brownish ripple —
the ants themselves. The Big Pine. The Big Spruce.
Stackpoles. The Sandhole. The fireplace.
The white trunks of birch trees. The Big Stone.
And many memories. Silence, the inland sea, —
what else could I name for you?