A storm from the north. It is the time of rowanberries.
Awake in the night he hears--far above the horned tree -
the stars, stamping in their stalls.
Quiet, intensely active. "Horned" isn't in the original, but I rather like it. And he decides not to use the sprawling Latinate constellations, going for the brief, glittery stars. Yes.
Some things we lose.
from John Timpane: The Philadelphia Inquirer: This is poetry to prize, from a Nobel winner
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