the chatter of children
on the morning of Christ's emergence
& a cat scratching at the door
seeking the comfort of flames
is the beauty in being
& to know & see
yellow petals flutter in the sun
the knobbed pine dropp its cones
when bid by the wind
not for the taste of hemlock sweet
I dream the things that are
that move
that touch me
as a needle thrust to the bone
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Superb! Again, the ampersands disturbed me - but a lesser criticism than those of about 50 years ago, methinks. My favourite part is... the whole poem, every word, le mot juste. Owl