Now is the time to come-
and the tree, swept clean
of purple, hosed
into the gutter like after-the-wedding
confetti, stands merely green.
But, what green!
Overnight, the busy painter, not loath,
(for Nature a vacuum abhoreth)
tints each leaf with
gold betokening growth.
We tilt back brims-
to an ancient song
coin novel words;
marvel how the times, again,
return and returning, move along.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem