After a Late Afternoon Run in Thornrose Cemetery on the Last Day of March
I lie on my back on the eastern slope.
The clouds are close. Moving as if on an escalator.
When I get up, ten thousand blades of grass
do the same, rising slowly, bent in the middle
But straightening, unburdened.
Translations from the English 
Love this, Jeff. Just beautiful.
Thank you, Len.
You know it’s a favourite when you pause to absorb it and then instantly read it again. Loved it.