they seem like they are dancing
in the snow and cold
basking in blue and bright
and I, with cocked head and
crooked thought,
decide to dance with them.
covered in snow
I wandered around a small acre
with a few trees, snapping photographs.
If it were possible...
(and maybe to tree's it is)
the cedar would swear they saw me
do the Macarana
in the cold, in the snow
in the back field,
where the winds howl became a song
at a place, that to me
is the most beautiful spot
on earth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem