Baby no longer, you reach
to place on the green bough
this little satin cushion -
it has for me such power.
(“Baby’s First Christmas”
the embroidery celebrates) .
We hang the tinkling globes
the ribbons and the bells of glass
inherited from grandparents
and, look, the cardboard stars
you glued and glittered long ago:
for decades they’ve survived:
fragile relics lovingly repacked
each January; each December
the past unwrapped, revived.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem