Classic Poem

Just around twenty
and the distant grove of trees
wore its hair loose,
dizzily shaking,
unable to grasp the sense of it,
oh breathless tree, oh love
that lived in such longing!

Now nearing forty,
the backs of my hands thin and bony,
and all the trees as well
have become winter trees, like that:
shedding their leaves,
without shame they have taken off
all that feels good to be rid of.

Only now as I settle
into the bath, they wave
their hands at me,
confirming, slightly,
a landscape in the misty evening glow,
all of it drawing joyfully nearer.