a garden lost in translation

I had a few false-starts this morning with other lines from Osip Mandelstam’s “Let Fly the Wild”, finally settling on ‘thirty-one years alive in cherry white’. Wish I could have spent a little more time reworking some things. I have three virtual classes today, so I had to make do with the 30 minutes available to me this morning. Impatience, too, is candy.

Have we spent thirty-one days decaying or
thirty-one years alive in cherry white?
The blooms sprouting from his eyelashes nod;
sweet tendrils from my fingernails explore.
If Eden should come back to us, let it
be here – walls growing sturdy and roofless
so we may reach up in safe confines to
swallow the yellow of our dying stars.

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