Old leaves have no defence against the wind.
A gray hawk is October's inner cry.
The bells of Salem church play elegies.
Distance becomes a single snowflake's fall.
The mood is blue as autumn's last frost flowers,
Small bits of heaven hidden in the grass.
Tom Roach who called them by their favored name,
Went home across the green fields long ago.
Yet sometimes when the light moves slowly west,
And bells summon a faithful few for prayers,
I see his shadow picking a bouquet.
To live in memory is to be alive.
For my grandfather who started to work in the coal mines of West Virginia when he was twelve years old.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem