Each thing...

Each thing, in its time, has its time.
The trees do not blossom in winter,
nor does the white cold
cover the fields.
The heat that the day required of us
belongs not to the night that's falling.
Let's love with greater calm
our uncertain life.
Sitting by the fire, weary not from our 
work but because it's the hour for weariness,
Let'snot force our voice to be
more than a secret.
And may our words of reminiscence
(which is all the sun's black departure brings us)
be spoken at intervals,
Haphazardly.
Let's remember the past by degrees,
and may the stories told back then,
now twice-told stories,
speak to us
of the flowers that in our distant childhood
we picked with another kind of pleasure
and another consciousness
as we gazed at the world.
And so, sitting there by the fire
as if there forever, like household gods,
let's mend the past -
As if mending clothes
In the disquiet that repose must bring to our lives
when all we do is think of what -
We were, 
and outside there's just night.