In my backyard, as the bower, the grotto, it should be,
I range through my lands, employing hidden hahas;
a gentle rise reveals vast panoramas, distant mists, grazing llamas.
I place copies of your photograph whenever I plant
to guarantee vast harvests of fruits and vegetables,
leaves, runners, vines cascading over the sides of the raised beds
and flowing through the garden, and the miniature trees
have somehow become as sequoias and redwoods;
At ground level I find it convenient to grow my own coffee beans,
orange bushes, herbs for relaxation, pungent bright flowers.
On the warm sunny days in my backyard, I lie horizontal to the earth
(perhaps my back’s curvature does not match exactly,
I am no scientist, but it is close enough), and I am at the exact center
of the world, equidistant to my left side if you travel right,
to my right side if you travel left, to my feet if you travel
in the direction of my head, to my head in the direction of my feet.
I realized that this is the spot I should meet with you one day,
and I see your face and often your body floating translucently
when I study the layers of the atmosphere above me,
and a bright breeze carries your perfume through the birch tree.