Spring.
The greens smother me.
The fields,
A grassy smog
Of palette swirl.
The emeralds hang heavy.
The trees,
A stifling knit
Of sweater knot.
The limes a choking hazard.
The homes,
A rash of moss
On muffled boards.
The hedges box me in.
The tongues of fern
In chatter stalk,
Suffocate my speech.
In surgeons veil
And jaded,
I gag in envy lost.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem