Wheat Ears – Selected Poems


Why stand by your door

gazing the mountain

as if trying to paint it green

on the retinas of your eyes

and the light breeze how can

you paint it when you’re

blinded by emotion?

To what end do you point

your hand at the ice caped

peaks as if to let them know about

the ghosts never passing by

anymore, as if to tell them that

spring is coming soon

when they exude green velvet

when they redress in light hues?


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