Baram 1

Baram 1

While February-riding
My dark silver bike,
A Canadian wind
On a Korean street
Sharp-freshes my cheeks
In the dead of city night.

This cold poverty
Underlying the urban
Is nature,
And it is the gift
Of an objective god.

This cold is timeless
It is pure.
It links cities,
Nations,
And all the times
Of life.

I was twelve
When I first felt this wind.
I mean, consciously.
And now,
cycling home against it again,
I head toward my wife,
Dimly recognizing
Its unnameable value,
Its heat,
Its love.