River, its wooden bridge
a-creaking as we enter the park.
The river is a swirling soufflé
of foam-filled bubbles,
loose branches
meandering in the stream
a southerly flow.
Around the bend, rock-poking
ripples
overcome a small sand dune.
Aware of my presence
a squirrel skitters tree-upwards.
I am a child of my past,
peanut-butter fingers
fishing with a hooked worm
dangling low.
Upon a nearby plaque:
"In '36 three men entombed
141 feet below, seeking crowns
of gold within the granite,
one man died."
Paged in time the village
is somber, at attention
stapled to a gravel road
where peace and simplicity
are not easily forgotten.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem