We argue at the cottage gate
like the cluster of conifers beside us
pointing all winter to the sky, to the sun,
as if in condemnation:
You! Shiver me timbers!
And as last season’s needles
and ripening cones dropp from
the snow-burdened boughs,
so our discontents
and failed expectations loosen,
plummet, then disperse
or sink into the ground
perhaps to re-emerge
another place, in warmer months.
Icy emotions buzz around us
like snow flurries: white, light,
but made of steel, each starpoint
a razor edge.
We agree to part
and I am troubled
by the patterns your footprints
etch into the snow-covered path
and the noise of receding footsteps
and the sound the brown needles
dropping, dropping.
Gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem