The tree the children have chosen
from the forest
is always too tall;
your adult hands, bonded
to it by frost, scrape
against the door-jambs.
So, in the darkening shed,
too late to sharpen
reluctant tools,
you cut and trim,
try not to lose too much
of what the children had seen.
Now it stands there
and they, having strewn it
with lights and miniature
wooden offerings,
are in their beds.
In the quiet firelight
the tree is
- almost -
singing.
A great start with a nice poem, Steve. You may like to read my poem, Love and Lust. Thanks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A sentimental poem, adults caring for children and their innocence and wonder. Well done, Steve. Have you any more like this?
Thank you very much.