2016 02 04
Mist swirls down from white moon among tree limbs
where sleeping birds dream wind over grass fields.
Rivers of eyes flow glowing on my breast.
Leaves flutter from open books on blind hills
where children chase shadows through gold sun rays.
I will never tell you my tale of sorrow.
Flowers blossom from twigs of my fingers
so I give apples to everyone I meet.
Rain washes my silent tears into soil.
White moon of your face lights my winding road
through bellicose forest of grasping hands.
Frail basket of my heart is empty now.