The rain lets up. Bright shafts of sunlight
plunge through shiny leaves of birch and white oak.
I turn off the lamp on my desk as the birds
start up again, a woodthrush, a baltimore oriole.
How I like it here in my cabin in the woods,
a glass of water within reach, a kettle on a shelf,
coffee in a tin if I want to brew myself a cup.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem