Focus on a crocus.
Watch it open it's lips like a catcher's mitt.
What does it want?
A purple feather to match a yellow?
A melody?
Many clambor from the earth
singing new vows like folk songs.
Could you make
so similar concession to
a shy god?
Day, oh day
newfound and forthcoming;
hung with coronets of bays
There is the cant of a brook, no matter where-
There is a healing
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem