by Michael R. Burch
Something remarkable, perhaps...
the color of her eyes... though I forget
the color of her eyes... perhaps her hair
the way it blew about... I do not know
just what it was about her that has kept
her thought lodged deep in mine... unmelted snow
that lasted till July would be less rare,
clasped in some frozen cavern where the wind
sculpts bright grotesqueries, ignoring springs'
and summers' higher laws... there thawing slow
and strange by strange degrees, one tick beyond
the freezing point which keeps all things the same
... till what remains is fragile and unlike
the world above, where melted snows and rains
form rivulets that, inundate with sun,
evaporate, and in life's cyclic stream
remake the world again... I do not know
that we can be remade—all afterglow.
[Note: "inundate with snow" is not a typo.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem