Light refracts blue and green in
snow grottos;
limber pines kneel in moonlight
below Pacific peaks.
Where water tumbles from glaciers,
you rush between hips of burnished rock;
your voice cascading like a fogbow—
rainbow colors fall through the mist.
At dawn, where the skeleton of
a juniper reaches for the morning star,
and its roots moan from the
subterranean heart of the wind.
And from our bedroom, at first light,
where the moon is pale on your face,
phantoms of tree limbs dance
across our bed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem