I cannot cut them down,
the rich brown cones of the balck-eyed-susans,
golden skirts shed
standing tall against morning bright grass.
It is their last hurrah
the final phase
of sun-blest summer
undaunted
by the passing of their prime
framed by timid green fringe
they reach up
on still strong stems
unadorned affirmation
of their core.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem