In the long autumn
thin leaf holds to twig,
flower to stem,
gold-red berry to cluster.
In the long autumn
cloud clings to mountain,
white swan to river flood,
salt spray to the cliff.
In the low house
they have cut back the roses,
they have piled up logs
and stored apples and wine.
In the low house
amid crystal and velvet
the old film begins
and they settle to watch it.
The geese fly by
and the sky is crimson
as the last roses crumple
unseen through the window.
The geese fly by
and the sky is silver
as over the roof steals
the first fall of snow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem