That's what it looked like
where I was born.
Two dimensions.
The austere geometry.
The distances
intersecting at right angles.
A landscape
stricken of elevation.
Yes, there was a greening
when the June sun
lifted the corn and rye.
Yes, there were
the trickles of water
over gentle rises.
Yes, we rocked ourselves
as the prairie winds
weaved through the poplars.
But the summer died young
and when that sky
turned to slate in December,
it left a whiteness
that was deep and endless.
And we burned
what we could to stay warm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Spare and stark imagery. Like the landscape. Having been there, I understand and the poem worked well for me.