In Memory of Radka Toneff

It’s autumn. Leaves are falling. A friend
drives her car

into the woods, she who was always with us
with her smile and her

thoughtfulness – yet she was
sans canoe? The ballad of the sad young men is not

the song of the birch, turning golden
when the wind gusts

hit. Or the frost
pulls out his wire cutter. What kind of garments

lie on the ground, where the birch tree
stood? Radka, we miss you. The sun shines

like a bedpost
above the spruce grove.

IN MEMORY OF RADKA TONEFF

IN MEMORY OF RADKA TONEFF

Om høsten. Bladene faller. En venn
kjører inn

i skogen, en av dem som alltid hadde
et smil og en omtenksomhet

på lager – så var hun likevel
sans canoe? Balladen om de triste unge menn er ikke

sangen om bjørka, som blir oker
når vindkulene

kommer. Eller kulda tar fram
avbitertanga. Hva for plagg er det som ligger

på bakken, der bjørketreet
stod? Radka, we miss you. Sola skinner

som en sengestolpe
over granholtet.