The soil temperature
Falls like a lady’s tissue
But scarcely noticed
Over by the walls
In the shelter of the trees
Lay blankets of mulch
Past icy puddles
And frost-cracked bicycle tracks
They stir below ground
And how many snows
Will be rolled out, then absorbed
Till my sleepers rise.
And each blessed year
I try less and less to rush
The uncertainty?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem