God’s hand
is made of wind
which
brushes back the hair
of springtime’s thriving trees
and grass
and trembling dandelions
and nudges open
young twilight’s unlocked doors
(just stopping in to say “hello! ”)
then pulls them
firmly, gently shut,
leaving a peace of God behind
(2002, Los Lunas, New Mexico)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Absolutely beautiful, Rebecca - thank you.