The grass is not emerald green.
It is a thicker shade, more inviting.
Welcoming as a field of poppies
only more austere.
The single tree in rustling witness stands
to Nature's indifferent sculpting of the land.
The ground is cool, moist with anticipation
-a land of milk and honey, as they say.
The barony of spring whets the last of winter's embers
preparing summer's empire by degrees.
The breeze disappears
following the arc of the sun
and I am one step closer to the water's edge.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem