March

Spring unfolds like a letter from home.

The camphor tree peeking into my window,

Young, wears its cold green leaves.

Swallows comb the sky with their wings.

When night slips into my collar,

I look for a way for my heart to germinate.

I have no candle but wax,

Timid melting wish.

Moon ripples in the sky,

The buttons on my shirt,

Half stars, half ample fruits.

Grass irons my cotton shirt clean.

Moist breezes glaze my lips.

My hair extends into roots, blood vibrates.

My limbs, brother of forest,

Sister of stream,

Flowing flamefully.

2022.3.22

Telephone