Often, I imagine lifting my head from the page.
I imagine seeing a fraction of the sea,
its field of blue, beyond the window’s edge.
But all I glimpse is one small part of the ocean.
So I say to myself, that’s not
its full depth or expanse-
besides, I’m only sitting in one place.
It alerts me, imagination has limits.
I know it, too, must begin somewhere;
perhaps it has the freedom
of the sea bird’s wings-
like those our soul covets-
offering us branches,
feeding our daydreams
on a perched fulcrum.

Translated by Susan M. Schultz and Jennifer Feeley