Mole Shadows at Spring's Door
This is a poem, for someone
A mole steps into spring's doorway
You are combing the tips of reed grass
The river's waves grow downy fur, like a fairy taleCatkins are stamps the willow grove refuses to send
Shadows are a dance the wild trees weave with care
Open your palm—
That moon, like a glass marble,
Reflects dreams asleep inside a beetle's shellMy love, the route is a song the water rat never finished singing
In every place where the wind passes by
Sing with me
Bells will grow in clay jars, and the kettle will always smell of flower tea