Your husband stands
by the window, his tall,
thin frame is turned
from you, he is looking
at the fields beyond
the garden, the low
window that he looks
through makes his
mild stoop worse.
You gaze at him
with a mixture of
mild interest and
a vague knowledge
of who he is and
what he is doing there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem