Summer is a-flourishing
just as summer is a-finishing.
It's September outside
and chilly.
The goldfinch have departed,
the golden cosmos has bloomed itself out.
Still there's a rash of color
a-blowing in the wind:
zinnias, marigolds, impatiens,
one giant hibiscus, still insistent
the blue of asters reminiscent
of bachelor's buttons earlier
and green, green, green,
the wisteria tendrils a-stretching,
the black elephant's ear (really bronze)
leaning weightily toward the black petunias -
a-flourishing
a-finishing,
persistent
in its energy.
Just beyond the pane
reaching skyward
a branch of our climbing rose,
Joseph's Coat of Many Colors,
has shot out at its apex
twelve tiny buds,
at its finish, something summery
about to spring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your views are always entertaining, Frank.