It flows where apples ripen.
Along the way rocks
dissolve mirrors of snow.
It becomes a true cast
of black spaces, dominions
that wake to lost friends,
goodness betrayed over tomatoes.
It delights in tidepools
where starfish stick,
holds the hearse’s wake
in a forever called the sea.
It caresses unwashed
silences, love does, and tracks the
center of the sun
in the furniture of each dark music.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'It caresses unwashed silences, love does' Rachel Ann Butler