in the deep of the woods
you take rain checks with you
and a basket, not too big,
for you to gather words,
you bring with you an empty
cloth, a canvass,
and a spinning jenny, some
cotton, and a song
or simply a whistle, or
a whisper to the mists
and there you weave your
own tapestry of words
and memories and whatever
and then you write that letter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem