Contrails and distrails-
which is which,
and which is this,
You may wonder,
of the two?
I do.
The fleecy-pale
water droplet trail
melting in evening's blue-
piebald-orange-pink,
(as if the world were going up in flames
around the brink,)
hauled by a jet
hurtling toward night
rapidly proceeding out of sight
like the white traces
made by the scraper
on water-color paper? ;
Or those blue burrows
the turbine furrows
cleanly in cloud?
Contrails, distrails,
I can never keep you straight.
And though it's late
Mean to learn:
Which is who
before I hit the light.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem