the smell of woodsmoke
lingers in the air;
darkness falls,
like silent thunder.
the earth tremors and turns,
you walk from room to room....
or perhaps only,
a curtain blown by passion,
a broken cup, cobwebs
on pulsing walls.
a cry of passion,
water bursts the pipes...
one of my shirts
that you wore to bed.
a single shot
on a November morn....
the deer falls in
three quarter time.
sheets that still
carry your scent...
the ground naked,
and hungry for rain!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your writing always creates a particular emotion in me. I have yet to decipher what it is. Thank you for that, great poetry.