The pump house and green tractor
lie on the broken edge of winter.
The unslakable azaleas tall as boys
knee-deep in ploughed snow banks.
I thought I saw you coming back
rolled in a red parka, your green cap
touched by ice crystals; the Arabic
phrases you speak to the livestock.
Two men drop hay for a dozen head
of scattered cows.
My overcoat drips into my shoes;
Iowa succumbs to winter,
kohl black shadows dark as your
Turkistan eyes;
The cows lean against the fence,
the wind leans against the cattle.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem