I stood beside you and pulled at the tufts of jade grass
that gathered themselves closely about your trunk.
It was new spring grass and I was feeling oh so old.
I noticed the copper tinted sap that leaked,
running down your black bark. It dried there hardening,
turning as clear as glass and I wondered,
'Is this the year that you will bear us your sweet plums? '
You tease me by resting a year giving me little delight.
No succulent fruit, no sweet, savory bits of amethyst
candy, your juice dripping from my bearded chin.
Uhm, that's your fruit.
This must be your year of giving
because I can't imagine a year as long as the last.
There was no fruit last year I know it.
Years shouldn't be so long and how the birds wait.
Oh how the wind holds back and the storm sleeps still
and then it comes with precise huffing,
a tempest upon man and tree sending all of our
fruit showering down upon the earth,
lost and sent to the blades of jade,
grass wet with the tears of first morn
You are like me Mister Plum Giver,
just when I am about to produce
the season of fruit winds up messy between my toes.
Dare I hope this is your season for fruit my dear tree?
The months without you have been long indeed.
I finish my pulling the unkempt grass from about your trunk
as I bid you farewell.
I hope you will find a friend in your next Gardner
and I shall miss you dear tree.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem