Flowers in class, the young girls ripple
laughing together in twos and threes
their pages rustling
their pens swirling
between breezy fingers...
Lips: rosy pistiles, hair wheat-swaying....
their teacher is the gardener
standing gazing with critical approval,
clippng here, straightening there,
a one-hour deity,
sun across the heavens that they turn towards,
each with her own intentions
and ready to uproot,
leave the garden and
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem