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Forsiktig med å blotte sjela
Forsiktig så du ikkje blottar heile

Looking up, clouds form and reform. They resemble – an embryo, a departed friend resting horizontal. Or a great arm, compassionate as a spring, that if some ordained might reach and take up that linen sack and all gathered within, if only but the soul of an idea – the color of water, the weight of a hill.

Når eg ser opp, formar og omformar skyene seg. Dei liknar – eit foster, ein avdød ven kvilande i horisontalen. Eller ein stor arm, medfølande som ei springfjør, som dersom det krevst kan strekka seg ut og ta opp den linsekken og alt som er samla i han, om så berre sjela til ein tanke – fargen på vatn, vekta av ein ås.

This uncommon bundle has always been my comfort, my happy burden. Yet I have found it unwise to attach myself to the souvenirs within. For as soon as I focus on a certain object I misplace it or it just disappears.

Morning found the field bright, abundant with a thousand wildflowers we often gathered and wove into crowns. But the centerpiece was the old black barn inhabited by bats. It has long since burned. But at that time it stood like at battered top hat that only the courageous or forlorn might wear.