Near the Falls in Winter(for Gardner,1978)
White branches
sharpen this wood:
Birch slakes best,
is most in touch
with need.
Moss bubbles from the rocks;
icicles spin down;
only the caw of winter
flocks the air;
Yet suddenly your words
spring new skies:
You are walking through Florence:
I am there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your insight into nature is impressive, and your rendition of words elegant. You're very talented. Thanks for sharing and always remain blessed.