Hunter's moon and Tremble, poems by Theresa Whitehill

Standing in the shadow
of a walnut tree on the night
of the Hunter’s Moon, at the
moment the mockingbird
begins his inquiry of the night,
letting the fragrance
of the moon dissolve
on the tongue, becoming
a distillation of this planet’s
longing for itself.

Tremble

I want to speak to you
of beautiful things before
the light has a chance to leave
the sky so you can see
the tremble in the word
“imaginable,” and the way
the throat opens up before
saying, “love,” “serendipity,”
“solace.” From there, it’s a small
step to this moment, this
silence of flower petals.

Frémir

Je veux te parler de belles choses
avant que la lumière n’ait le temps
de quitter le ciel
ainsi tu pourras voir
le tremblement du mot
imaginable, et la manière dont la gorge
s’ouvre avant de dire, amour, hasard,
réconfort. De là il n’y a qu’un pas à faire
pour arriver à ce moment,
ce silence des pétales.

Translation into French, Lydia Rand