The last wisps of hickory smoke
Stolen by a half hearted breeze,
Hung faintly near the campfire.
Embers sharing warmth
Warding off a night chill,
A bit early for this time of year,
My old wool shirt
Skillfully hides pine needles in buttoned pockets,
And traps the scent of the north woods in its weave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem