I’d been told our spring water comes down the hill
through an underground pipe,
from 'a spring by the wall, about 500 yards in back of the barn.'
Expecting to simply go find the spring,
I head up the hill along the stone wall.
It’s not easy going. Halfway up,
the impenetrable forest of scrub pines and firs
starts forcing me away from the wall.
Eventually, the wall, not the spring,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem