Demons must follow
the straight path
through silver poplar grove-
village folk contrive twists
Lo! sacred precincts!
Potawatomi called it
'a big smelly swamp
by the hardwood forest'-
winged monarchs and gingko
thrive among its flora and fauna!
My dog pauses
to look up at the fall of gold
and scarlet-
a blizzard of autumn
enfolds us!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem