It was laden with fruits again this year
As it was each year
Cuckoos hid behind its rich foliage, again this year
And sang, as they did, each year.
I fed it with backyard manure this year
As I did, each year.
I dug a trench around it this year
As I hadn't done, before.
A weather-proof cover did surface
That had not shown before
A small note in my hand
Written two decades ago
On a cool September morning
She had fever
Arranging her woolen shawl
Against the blowing wind
She had planted, smiling
A birthday gift to me, for ever.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem