I am lying in the garden
and I see that, high above
the cottonwood's
oustretched hands
squeeze the finger spaces
in between the leaves
and cornflower sky -
and at the very top
the tree is ceaselessly
patrolled by restless wings.
So this is the Calendar spring
dazzling eyes that have strained
too long in winter tunnels
yes this is the Calendar spring
a time when pores open
to swallow the sun
and bare feet
fondle the warm
thawed earth -
the soft pillowed air
sliced by blue blades
the swallows weaving
invisible patterns of love
but I listen to the sparrows' songs
and choose to sing with them
pleibean residents of my garden
for there is comfort
in their ordinariness
an easy way with them
yes I sing with the sparrows
my same old song of hope
to match their time
yet knowing
Spring is seasonless
for not long ago
when ice locked me in
swallow wings beat
inside me fanning a tiny spark
of life still flickering
in a remote corner
of myself
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem