Aiko, My Aiko
The buffalo is wading deeply
into the mud.
Ripe is the rice.
And white.
There’s almost no wind.
Sun in circles.
Rice is the door,
quietly is rustling at ajaring...
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment