This morning I put the apostrophe in
and this afternoon I took it out.
Oscar Wilde's comic wit
about the writer working hard.
Revision has lately become the sign
of seriousness, as in I revise
some poems a hundred times,
maybe more. A word of praise here,
a critical word there.
Before that there was the debate
if poems not stitched with end-sounds
were playing tennis without a net.
Late summer, August, hot, but
chickadees forming platoons.
Three months until the snow flies,
sure as the June my father died.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem