It is spring.
Daffodils erupt from snow-clouded earth,
Their yellow brightness brighter
Than the warming orb of sun
Afloat in blue-bespeckled sky.
It is sugaring time in New England.
Maples, with their sweet syrup flow,
Spill out their lives,
Bleed through taps and tubes,
Sap distilled by fire to sweet-delicious gold.
Proud trees of our loins
In other lands
Give up, too, the sweetness of their blood
One man’s dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem