The thistle has now gone to seed
rising from your hands,
drifting off here and there
The house is not smaller
it's only the cypress that's overgrown
the climbing fern, also, rising from your hands
has shot higher and higher
entwining round everything as though round you.
You didn't look back for a second when you left
Don't draw back, then,
don't for an instant try to retrace your steps.
You'll notice the door at once,
forbidding, holding fast its secrets, still
marked perhaps
by hurried taps,
with the dried foliage on either side.
Knock on the door when you arrive
not once, twice or three times.
The grandchildren won't understand
on their own, probably
their story doesn't include you,
their burning ember is not the one
you stirred,
the grandchildren don't see
your hands in their surroundings.
When they open up, take a burning ember
from any stove,
where it lingers in your imagination.
Draw them to you one by one
and apologise for the gifts.
Stay with them
bring them back to their fullness softly,
firmly but warmly
as though your absence was only for an hour.
If you need me
remember me to them, perhaps
that may be of use.
Now, be careful!
If they haven't opened the door to you yet
or if they did, but slammed it shut
against the hoary stranger claiming to be you
if the door seems more forbidding
in your eyes, then
with the climbing fern darting
its stems at you
- and the cactus, too,
please, do not try to open it with your key.