Seventh day of snow.
Air still and raw.
The lawn marbled from the on-off thaw.
Blackbird sitting in the tree
looking at me.
I threw an apple core.
He pretended to flee
but of course he saw -
and soon came
bounding over grass,
eager to eat,
to peck-peck-peck
a fruit fresh and sweet.
Pink Lady!
He didn't know the name
of the apple, nor me.
But this he knew:
a sweeter taste
there could never be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There's only one thing better than an apple: two apples!