She sends me news of blue jays, frost,

Of stars and now the harvest moon

That rides above the stricken hills.

Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,

And lists what is already lost.

Here where my life seems hard and slow,

I read of glowing melons piled

Beside the door, and baskets filled

With fennel, rosemary and dill,

While all she could not gather in

Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.

Here where my life seems hard and strange,

I read her wild excitement when

Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.

The broken year will make no change

Upon her wise and whirling¹ heart; -

She knows how people always plan

To live their lives, and never do.

She will not tell me if she cries.

I touch the crosses by her name;

I fold the pages as I rise,

And tip the envelope, from which

Drift scraps² of borage, woodbine, rue³.

一封家书

她给我寄来蓝松鸦，霜，

星星，以及正在凋零的山丘上

此刻升起的秋月的消息。

她轻描淡写地提及寒冷，痛苦，

并罗列出已经丧失的东西。

读到这里，我的生活显得艰难而缓慢，

我读到鲜亮的瓜果

堆在门边，篮子里装满

茴香，迷迭香和莳萝，

而所有无法采集，或隐藏在叶丛的

那些，她只能任其变黑并落下。

读到这里，我的生活显得艰难而陌生，

我读到她躁动的兴奋，每当

星星升起，霜降下来，蓝松鸦歌唱。

断了又续的岁月没有改变

她聪明而热情的心;

她知道人们总是

计划自己的生活，却难以实现。

如果她哭泣，她不会告诉我。

我抚摸着她的名字,

叠好信，站起来，

倾倒信封，从里面飘出了

琉璃苣，忍冬，芸香的碎片。