How strange it is in wintertime when all the trees are bare.
That's the ones in the orchard and it doesn't seem quite fair.
Their boughs bend deep into the curling mist while their barks
seem to slump and twist.
Is this a place where friut will spawn, from springtime
blossom in April or May dawn.
Trees of apple, pear and cherry look so sad in winter days,
but come the spring when all is fair they will be back to their
wining ways.Prouducing fruit to the end of the season from
the warmth of the summer days.
Then what is left after the season ends, just windfalls to reap
leafless trees all brused and battered and an orchard that has
gone to sleep.
Now comes the snow it's sad to say, in this orchard a forgotton
place one that now takes on a new face; but underneath the
snow awaits the green and tender shoots, with promise and
fulfilment that comes from the roots. Buds, blossom, flower
and fruit a perfect sinario from a tiny shoot.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem