the green glow
of our cottonwoods
newly clothed in the gentle April sun....
our apple tree,
still skeletal,
intimating cotton buds
promising green glory to come,
and the grass!
all winter-yellow evaporated,
shouting like a
third-grade leprechaun
skipping across the playground
in the school's St. Patrick's Day Parade.
but most unforeseen,
along the rough fence
the vinca
blazing with royal light
in the deep, verdant shade
of our cottonwoods.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem