All those I should haves, shelved in my soul.
They liken the autumn leaves to a hidden scroll.
Turning gold, they're simply a piano key,
clarinet, violin string, and harp chords are too breathy.
Those I should have and how they fill me with grief:
They soaked up the daylight and the moon's motif.
They cast me off, adrift, till I'm ill at ease.
Briefly, I am a composite of the woods and fairies.
And the red bulbous mushrooms, fungi and spores.
Whose aching I should have, now compound-
to break my logic, my inner peace, and my inner core.
To have me dumbfounded, still longing, still astounded-
wanting, still the wonders, the miracles of more,
I despise all this sadness and ageing beauty I abhor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem