to only be
if I had an everywhere to choose
and I do
for imagination takes me there
I'd pick
the low and rolling hills of home
somewhere
in a meadow filled with flowers
a cabin
near the clear stream of my youth
wicker chairs
upon the porch and one a rocker
the view
walled in oak and beech and hickory
and there
with my memories and quiet peace
at last empty
I would write a poetry that only is
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem