Friday, April 19, 2013

Trying to Forget My Idea for Vietnamese Baseball and You

In mourning morning fog
when even birds are down below
the cherry trees that flower in the graveyard
call us to salute them
                                     as if they'd die
without our response
                                     not just their beauty.

We do not know, somehow,
this magic show of green
is how it is supposed to be,
there is no time
                            to end in
as there's no time
                            when sleeping.

And growing never ends,
the reaching for the one within all life.
At some point we must go there alone.

1 comment:

Jack said...

I love the personification of the trees, how something stoic and scenic can appear to have longing. A fine moment of poetry, wowing.