the lupine trail
runs east to west
in a dog's eye...
there's one apple
left to core....
or
was that rite
an other meandering prelude
to a horn's woggle...?
oh, never you mind, darlin'...
must've been the wind falling...
where was I?
you there?
anyone for a game of snowshoes?
get my drift?
and call me a cabernet
when
the fire flies
or
the cloud bursts.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem