Mid March.
Spring has not yet arrived.
Daffodils are a promise,
but at least show spindly stalks
of green. In the grove, deciduous trees
are brown jaggy things with no buds. Even
magnolia, usually decked with cream flames,
is asleep. But nestling in nooks and roots
of bare oaks, clusters of snowdrops
like white apostrophes, jab the air.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem