I have my blue jacket
braving cold in thicket
of naked branches, alone
there are patches of green
on mostly brown ground
very clear water by ditch
draining from nearby farm
those hills of lusting color
faded to plain carpet of winter
I can still see birds hopping
in symphony to jumping hoppers
where those came from; buffled
weather is playing tricks on us
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem