Winter’s quilt falls on the earth, an enshrouding safety,
And Heaven’s arch door is locked by two latches.
A silkworm coils up in the semi-darkness, glowing as silk strings.
Imaginary matchsticks do not shed wax tears of a candle,
They are melting the mound and creek under the cupping hands.
In the cave of metaphor, Platonic roses bloom on the bed,
Coldness still lingers outside the window, and a prolonged drought
Is temporarily relieved with the first snow that comes late.
The earth’s blue veins swell like cobra roots of banyans,
And the queen of the night has a pot of tea ready for the summer sunset
To fall and steal into a dusky yard where the apparition of a peach flower
Reminds a once down-and-outer of a maiden from his past.
Expectation since the harvest moon is scarring over, itchy,
But it is healing by itself under the quilt of the winter.
Feb. 11, 2011