I must hie me home and sit
at the desk in my den
to evacuate a poem
in the moist topsoil
of my fertile imagination
Things like poems
grow in that undergrowth
I call my jungle
tendrils reaching skyward
through subtle soil
to take flight
and blossom red
and yellow
in the sun!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem