The First Rain
The first rain reminds me
Of the rising summer dust.
The rain doesn't remember the rain of yesteryear.
A year is a trained beast with no memories.
Soon you will again wear your harnesses,
Beautiful and embroidered, to hold
Sheer stockings: you
Mare and harnesser in one body.
The white panic of soft flesh
In the panic of a sudden vision
Of ancient saints.
Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav, in A Life of Poetry: 1948 - 1994,
New York, HarperCollins, 1994, with thanks to the publisher
