Thursday, January 30


It is not yet spring. The urge rises from within,
  as it always has, to paint my skin in cherry-
  blossom shadows on pure ivory powder.
  Black lines and hard edges of serrated leaf
  serve as contrast, serve as a fence to keep
  it all in. I cannot feel alive in winter, I wither
  in summer's heat. Let me be a dancer in the
  bright autumn and a maiden in flowering
  spring, where the sparrows nest in peony
  branches, where the petals fall to matcha-
  scented winds, where gardens are arranged,
  seeming endless, until the end.