Clock ticking
big hand approaches 12
small one already counting ten
museum doors roll
finally open
Facing impressions
a grove of quaking aspens
green and silver
and brown hues
shades mixed in ancient paint
details of a fractal pattern
A flash of red
cardinals setting fire
to the stillness
a robin's heart beating
as it grabs an early breakfast
hiding in last fall's leaves
Blue and white tree swallows
skim and dart over morning
reflected in the lake
steam floating just off the surface
burning in the sunlight
A bright yellow mushroom
growing in fertile earth
light doesn't quite reach
long tendrils burrowing
loose loam
I take a deep breath
and come back to here
where I stand
on hard grey and white marble
enchanted in the adventure
before moving on
to the next feast
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love the way you have described the opening of the museum and then taking stock of the colourful artifacts kept in a particular section there. Thanks.
Thank you Rajnish.