Indian paintbrushes
Telling the tale of a boy
Painting the sunset
On his new buckskin
Using wonderous reds, yellows, and oranges
Then forgetting the brush
In the swaying grass
Next spring
After the brush was covered with dirt
A small flowerbud
That's never been seen
Breaks he soil
And grows into
The most beautiful flower in the valley
That's the legend of the indian paintbrushes
(Fall 2008, Age 11, Door County, Wisconsin)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem