I search her face across a hemisphere,
embark on one more journey:
Will you come?
She’s ready with the thermos,
wearing her brown gardening-shoes,
her glasses slipping forward on her nose.
Says she’s been planting dahlias
to make a summer show,
a new display for the place
she calls her Park.
Over the cloudbank it’s candescent,
close. I dare her to keep up with me.
She shuffles answers
to fit my questions. We float,
in the glide of it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem