Through Sunday's window, dappled day
showers upon leaves so great,
each a tropical cradle.
'Weeping' trees
for tears have no need;
rather, then, they lounge serenely
serenaded by the music
of sacred afternoon
wrapped in the comfort
of bark, old and homespun.
Jays and red-wings,
breakfasted,
resting
agave and hibiscus
ever holding splendid secrets
bottlebrush blooms hinted;
ferns, many olive orchids
sleek reclining temporarily,
soon to dance with Latin beauty
in plumeria's white
eternal light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem