Three short lines, and the first is a strange, striking image: the speaker is translating a library into hands. Instead of carrying words from one language to another, they are turning a whole body of written knowledge into something touched and held, perhaps gesture, perhaps sign, perhaps simply the physical act of handling. The title, "A matter of interpretation," nudges us to see the poem as about how meaning shifts when it changes form.
The next two lines are questions with no answers. Is time a prison or a garden? Are trees letters to the night? Each offers two ways of seeing the same thing, and the speaker doesn't choose. Trees as letters links nature back to the library, as if the world were already a kind of writing, addressed to the dark.
The mood is quiet, curious and open-ended. The speaker seems less anxious than wondering, comfortable leaving the questions hanging and inviting us to decide what we see.