The Cucumber

                        to Ekber Babayev

The snow is knee-deep in the courtyard 
and still coming down hard:
it hasn't let up all morning.
We're in the kitchen.
On the table, on the oilcloth, spring—
on the table there's a very tender young cucumber,
                                   pebbly and fresh as a daisy.
We sit around the table staring at it.
It softly lights up our faces
and the very air smells fresh.
We sit around the table staring at it
—amazed,
               thoughtful,
                               optimistic—
as if in a dream.
On the table, on the oilcloth, hope—
on the table, beautiful days,
a cloud seeded with a green sun,
an emerald crowd impatient and on its way,
loves blooming openly—
on the table, there on the oilcloth, a very tender young
                                                         cucumber,
                                       pebbly and fresh as a daisy.
The snow is knee-deep in the courtyard
and coming down hard.
It hasn't let up all morning.